


Defined By the Space We Seek

by Sematary_22709



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Coming Out, Family Drama, Fights, Fluff, Friendship, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, Smut, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sematary_22709/pseuds/Sematary_22709
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen!Lock.  As his family falls apart, John Watson’s anger cannot be contained, and nothing seems to be able to keep him in check once he’s aware of the high he receives from getting into fights and seeking out dangerous situations.  Then he meets Sherlock Holmes, an equal, addicted to a similarly dangerous lifestyle. Their friendship arises outside of the realm of normalcy, and they make a promise to keep each others’ addictive habits in line.  But the romance that develops wasn’t what either of them had imagined when their friendship began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    John tried to recall the tranquility he’d felt as soon as his fist had collided with Andrew’s nose, because he knew that if he had to sit another minute staring over the school receptionist’s desk at Andrew’s sobbing and blubbering, bloody face he might just do it again.    
  
    But just as the thought occurred to him, he heard a door creak open and his father’s voice spill out of the principal’s office, “Of course, I understand, it will be taken care of.”  John didn’t look up; he kept his hands clenched determinedly under his chin and his face pointedly looking at the floor as he heard two pairs of footsteps coming his way.    
  
    “Come on, sweetie,” John heard a woman’s simpering voice across the room and glanced up in time to see Andrew being led away by a plump woman in a brown dress suite who had his same straight, black hair.  He caught John’s eye as they left, a handful of bloody paper towels up to his face, and his arm around his mother’s back.  Just as they passed through the double doors out into the school foyer, Andrew flipped up his middle finger back at John.    
  
    “Fucking–,” John rose to his feet, but a hand came down firmly on his shoulder.    
  
    “I think you’ve had enough fighting for a lifetime,” came his father’s tired voice.  
  
   _Tired.  Had that become the norm?_   John wasn’t sure anymore.  
  
    He clenched his jaw, willed himself to remember the calming effect the fight had brought him, but the more he pushed to reminisce, the further away that happy feeling of being free from his anger went.    
  
    Anger: his only companion as of late.  And a couple of punches wasn’t enough to keep it abated anymore, apparently.    
  
    John shrugged off his father’s hand without looking at him and grabbed his backpack leaning against the chair.  They left the school in silence, John, still fuming, keeping his eyes on his shoes to avoid the stares from any lagging students who might’ve stayed after the last bell.  He knew the news of their fight would’ve ran through the tiny school like wildfire and while at the time it had felt good, it was humiliating to be walked out by a parent.       
   
    John slammed the car door after getting in.    
  
     _Please don’t talk, do not say a word to me, for God’s sake Dad, don’t._  
  
    “You’re grounded for two weeks, no computer use, and you’re suspended for two days from school,” his father said wearily.  John bit back the retort he was itching to throw at him.  He would’ve asked what he was supposed to do about homework or projects without a computer but he knew it didn’t matter.  No rules seemed to hold up in their house anymore.  The punishments his parents had thrown at him earlier that month had gone out the window within a couple of days, along with John himself who found the bushes beneath the roof that his windows lead out onto were the perfect cushions when Mike was throwing a party two blocks over.  
  
   _I need to get out._    
  
    “Why did you do it, John?  What’s gotten into you?” there wasn’t anger in his father’s voice, and for some reason that infuriated John all over again.  But he remained silent, staring out the car window as their neighborhood flashed by, his jaw resignedly clenched.  
  
    “You’ll get kicked out if you keep it up, colleges won’t be impressed by that.”  
  
    He continued not to respond.    
  
    “If you’re angry at, at me or your mother...,” his father trailed off, clenching and unclenching his hands on the steering wheel as he let out a long breath.  John couldn’t speak.  
  
   _Of course, my god, are you so blind that you even have to ask that question?_  
  
    Things had become unbearably unfixable at home.      
     
    He had so much fury in him, so much frustration but he hated his emotions the worst when they showed themselves through uncontrollable sobs, so letting the anger boil over was leagues more desirable.     
  
    They reached the house without exchanging any more words and John immediately started for his room.  He reached the second floor landing and had almost made it to his bedroom door when a voice called out, “Hey, again?”  
  
    He paused, then turned to the door across the hall that was slightly ajar.  He pushed it open the rest of the way but didn’t go in.  Harry was sitting on her bed, cross legged, painting red polish across her nails on top of one of their school textbooks, long blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck.  
  
    “Yeah,” he said shortly, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe and sticking his hands in his pockets.  She scrutinized him for a moment, a pitying look over her usually sneering features, then said, “Why are you doing this?”  
  
     _Pity.  Was that so new?_    
  
    John bent his head and let out a low, humorless, laugh.  
  
    “Why do people keep asking me that?”  
  
    “Because it’s not like you,” she retorted.  They stared at one another, neither backing down, neither saying anything further.  John had always found it somewhat annoying that even though Harry was a year younger than him, she’d been graced with the maturity, or quite possibly the bullishness, of someone decades older than him.  
        
    Finally John looked away unseeingly at a movie poster on her wall, “Andrew was saying some shit about you.”  
  
     _Dyke, always the same insult.  How can you take it?  All the harm..._    
  
    John couldn’t remember a time when he’d gotten along with Andrew Wilo, or any of Andrew’s friends actually.  Their town was small enough that he’d been going to school with the same group of people since he was a child, gaining a few new additions each year, losing a couple as well.  John’s gang of friends and Andrew’s had split into the two parties that they were now sometime during middle school, and rightly so, it seemed.  Now in their junior year of high school most thought the cliques from middle school had all but broken apart and mixed together, but there were a few close-knit groups that had remained exclusive.  John had four good friends that spent their time like most friends do: video games, casual sports in the park, group night outings to the movies with their girlfriends.  Andrew and his pals weren’t all that different, but made a point to note that the video games they played were all the more superior than what normal people played as well as the movies they watched and the books they presumably read, and their group was further bonded by the fact that they were all on the school swim team.  While the two groups were rivals of some sort, they never really did anything to one another except talk darkly behind their backs.  
     
    He heard Harry snort and looked up.  
  
    “You don’t need to defend my honor, John, I’m not your damsel in distress,” Harry sneered, “and anyway, last week I kicked Andrew’s ass during the break, out near the track but he kept his trap shut because he didn’t want to admit he’d been beaten by a girl, I mean, Jesus, what is this?  Fuckin’ Disney channel gender roles?”  
   
    John gaped, a disbelieving smile crossing his face, “Oh so you can get in fights, but I can’t?”  
  
    She groaned, “I said ‘it’s not like you’ to fight, it’s like _me_ , I’ve been doing it for years,” she pushed herself off the bed and came to stand in front of him, “ _I’m_ the fuck up, the gay daughter who gets in fights and you’re the golden child.”  
   
    “Cut it out,” he said, pushing her hand away that was attempting to pinch his cheeks.  But then her face fell into a serious frown.  
  
    “I’m not okay either, John,” she said, her voice softer, “I know our family is falling apart, _has_ already fallen apart,” she corrected, “and we’re stewing here in the mess in this house, but–.”  
   
    “Look, I don’t want to talk about this,” he put up his hands in front of him as if to stop her words.  He saw her open her mouth to retort but he backed quickly out of the room, turned and opened his own bedroom door.  She said something, but he ignored it.  He knew she wouldn’t follow.  
                     
    Voices could be heard below his floor as soon as he sat on the edge of his bed.  He hadn’t seen his mom when he’d come inside the house but he now knew she was home.  He didn’t want to listen to them, two people who should no longer be living under the same roof.  His own parents.  
  
    Familiar faces, that was what he wanted, or, if he was being completely honest with himself, what he needed.  In this house, the constant shifting was a source of discomfort.  Constancy, constancy, constancy.  For once he wanted to come home and know the sister who sat in her room, and know the mother downstairs, and the father coming home from work.  But the altercations of the last couple of months had disfigured them into people who were not his family.  Their actions were suddenly unpredictable from when he used to be able to look toward their futures together.  
   
 _Will we be living here for much longer?  Will a hole form around the table setting where either Mom or Dad used to sit?  Will my childhood home become something that I won’t even want to visit when I’m older?  Will I go to college?  Nothing was out the question, not anymore._  
            
    He grabbed the remote control off of his bedside table and flicked on the TV sitting above his dresser.  The cartoons that faded on drowned out any other sounds.  
   
    John felt undeniably exhausted.  He tried to pull his Chemistry book out of his bag, maybe get some homework done he thought.  He couldn’t let his grades slip anymore than they already had if we wanted an impressive transcript for colleges, but at that moment as fatigue settled in, none of that mattered, not the future, not anything.  He felt emptiness sinking through him again, with nothing to occupy his head.  Well, nothing he _wanted_ occupying his head.  He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t remember if there were any plans he had to look forward to this weekend, or if he had a test coming up in one of his classes, couldn’t even bear to think of Mary, the girl he thought he might like, and the only comfort he knew he’d feel was if he slept.  
      
    That way, all of his feelings could just be extinguished, for the time being.     
  
    He was aware of being in a dream while still believing that he was replaying a memory.  His mother looked back at him over her shoulder as she rode ahead on her bike, her light hair whipping behind her.  Her face was bright with such happiness that he wasn’t sure whether she or the sunlight behind her was more blinding.  He was filled, to the tips of his fingers, with happiness.  
  
    When John woke up it was pitch black outside.  His TV was still on and acted as the only source of illumination in the room.  A live-action sitcom had come on while he’d napped.  He glanced at the clock on his nightstand: 9:40.  
  
    He felt wide awake.  
  
     _I need to get out._  
   
    He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.  His stomach rumbled and he was reminded of a knock he thought he’d heard at his door earlier in the evening but had ignored and fallen back into dreams.  He knew he needed food, but just didn’t feel like eating he felt like... _running_.  
       
    Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of freedom washed through him.  Everyone else will have gone to bed by now; the whole world sat outside his window.  Rummaging through his backpack, he pulled out his phone, wallet, and keys.  His fingers tapped the phone’s screen but paused.  All of his friends would be getting ready for bed, as was the school night rule.  And anyway, who else would want to go out at night with no plans in mind?  A ruthless sense of wildness had overtaken him.  It was the feeling that had engulfed him earlier before his fight with Andrew Wilo, and was the same feeling he’d had the first week of school when he’d wrestled Davis Carner to the ground out in the school courtyard.  
         
    He was out the window, onto the slanted roof, and down into the bushes in less than a minute.  Untangling himself from the branches while trying to make as little noise as possible, he finally managed to free himself and start moving through the shadows, over the sidewalk, over parallel streets.  The city air felt relieving in his lungs, like it would keep him afloat, keep him in this dizzyingly pleased state.  
                  
    The buildings on either side of the road slowly transformed from one street to the next, into peeling walls of broken brick, graffiti coated doors, shattered windows, and an abundance of deep nestled darkness.  The person John had been last year would’ve felt uneasy walking these alleyways, although, John mused, he never would’ve come here to begin with.  Fear had been replaced with adrenalin.  
   
     _Please let someone try something, let me bash one more person’s face in.  Not someone stupid like Andrew Wilo, someone serious, someone with no fear._  
   
    But the streets were quiet, only the sound of his footsteps on the pavement and a distant noise of cars traveling along a main road elsewhere.  John thought he could really just do this, keep walking, forever.  
  
    He approached a line of closed shops that were divided every few stores by alleyways.  Our of nowhere, John heard a muffled yell across the narrow street.  He froze, where someone with only an interest of getting home safely would have picked up their pace.  At the mouth of the nearest alley, a mass of shadowed figures were moving around.  Another cry of pain rang out through the empty street, and one of the figures was shoved to the ground.  
            
    John knew a fight when he saw one, even in the dim light of the street lamps, and he knew when it was one he didn’t want to get involved in, no matter how much adrenalin was pumping through his heart.  Three, four people against one?  He didn’t think so.  
   
    He knew he should just keep walking, keep his head down, maybe even go home.  The sound of knuckles hitting flesh over and over and over again felt deafening.  When he was directly across the street, he meant for his footsteps to quicken, but made the mistake of looking over.  
  
    The person being beaten kicked out, colliding with the shin of the guy who’d been punching him and they went down, howling.  In that moment, John caught a glimpse of the person on the ground.  He was disheveled, but the street was very narrow, and there was no mistaking that pale skin under those curls, the line of his jaw.  John stopped in his tracks.  
  
    A voice filled his head, _“If you think Nick Carraway has an attraction to Jordan Baker, then you have absolutely no right to teach us.”_   John remembered laughing, one of the few in the class that had, as Mrs. Barnes took to shouting at the boy that he was out of line.  That was the first time he’d taken notice of this guy, Sherlock, sitting with his long arms crossed over his chest in defiance at his desk, and tonight was the second.  
   
    John had never spoken to him, only casually noticing him skulking in the back row of his English, Chemistry, and Math classes.  He’d only started attending John’s school since the beginning of this year so his history, social class, acquaintances were somewhat of a mystery.  It’s a small school, though.  Everyone knew everyone’s name, everyone’s face.  
            
         
    It was one thing to watch a stranger being hurt, when there’s nothing that you feel you can do, when it would be foolish to put yourself in danger for them.  But a familiar face?  
   
    Then again, it wasn’t as if it took much for John to make rash decisions these days.  
      
    “What the fuck did you say?” one of the men yelled, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s white T-shirt.  John couldn’t hear what he said.  
  
     “You’d better say you’re fuckin’ sorry,” the other man snarled, and they both started in with furious kicks.  
   
    “Oi!” John shouted, a furious desire to intervene, to help, to save, to fight, took over.  He didn’t remember running, but his knuckles were suddenly connecting with the back of one of the men’s heads.  The guy stumbled and John kicked out with all the strength he could pull together, colliding with the man’s thigh, forcing him to topple over into the ground.  
       
    There was some indistinguishable yelling and cursing, someone grazed the side of John head with their fist, but it was too dark, too chaotic to see.  He kicked out, connecting with someone.  A fist rammed into his jaw, knocking him backwards, propelling him out into the street.  Then someone was on him, one of the huge men with a thick, sweaty body that seemed to be radiating heat.  John punched out but his fist didn’t come into contact with anything and the person on top of him grabbed his arm, pinning it beside him.  He yelled out, but choked on a glob of blood in his throat, a fist raised up above him and he tried to turn over, but he wasn’t quick enough.  The knuckles slammed into his nose.  He heard a ringing in his ears.  Someone else was shouting, or it might’ve been him.  He’d managed to get his other arm free from the person’s massive thighs holding him in place on the asphalt and clawed out, digging his nails into the man’s face.  He let out a horrible howl.  
  
     _Please, someone hear, anyone.  Help!_  
  
    The fist was raised above him again, silhouetted by the light hanging overhead.  John waved his arm, wiggling to free himself, and jammed his eyes shut, ready for the impact.  
   
    But it never came.  
   
    The weight crushing his chest was lifted.  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but sky above him.  
      
    He felt a hand clench around his bicep.  
  
    “Come on!” he heard someone shout.  Then Hh heard his name and the hand on his arm was pulling him, so he acquiesced.  
  
  
    They were running.  With the wind whipping past, his feet slamming into the concrete, his knuckles good and bloodied, he felt indescribably high.  They were over a street and down a block when John felt the boy, Sherlock’s, pace beside him begin to give.  John slowed until he finally stopped, leaning his hands on his knees, breathing laboriously.  Blood dripped freely from his nose and he tasted its coppery flavor in his mouth.  His entire face hurt.  He touched his nose gingerly, then ran his tongue over his teeth, making sure they were all still there.  
      
    Sherlock had stopped nearby.  John looked up to see him pressed to the brick beside the front window of a hair salon; he wore a plain t-shirt and tight black jeans tucked into dark combat boots.  His head was tilted back exposing his pale neck, pushing his dark curls over the brick.  His chest was heaving, eyes closed and lips parted, pointed toward the sky.  
        
    John watched him for a moment, then, feeling a squirm of embarrassment, looked quickly away.  
  
    “That was pretty stupid of you,” Sherlock said, his breathing slowly returning to normal.  His voice was low and deep, which didn’t seem to fit his thin figure somehow.  
     
    He scowled in annoyance, “you’re welcome.”  
  
     _No wonder he doesn’t hang around anyone._  
  
    He saw Sherlock’s eyebrows raise slightly in surprise.  
            
    The street they’d ended up on was deserted, although still unfamiliar to John.  He started to feel awkward, strange.  He didn’t quite know how to continue in the abnormality of the situation.  
   
    “Are you okay?” he settled on, “I mean...anything serious?”  
   
    Sherlock opened his eyes and leaned his head forward, “don’t think so.”  
  
    The white T-shirt he wore was speckled with blood and bruises were already appearing on his arms and face.  John’s eyes swept over him, but remained on one of his arms where, against the pale skin, lay several small red streaks.  
  
    Without thinking John grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm toward him, “Are those...?”  
   
    Sherlock snatched his arm away as if he’d been shocked and without saying another word, started to walk away in the direction they’d been headed.  
  
    “Hey wait,” John started, breaking into a brisk trot to catch up with him, “where’re you going?”  
  
    “Home,” Sherlock said, shortly.  John frowned, feeling taken aback.  
   
    “Who were those guys?”  
  
    “No one of importance,” Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, but John noticed him pressing his arm against his ribs.  They had to be hurting.  
  
    “You needn’t have bothered,” Sherlock continued over his shoulder, “you’re barely 5’6” and too slender to be _roughhousing_ with anyone older than a fifth grader.”  
       
    “Were they drug dealers?  Is that how you get your high?” John ignored his rather insulting words.  
     
    Sherlock stopped, halfway down the block, and whipped around.  
         
    “And you beat the shit out of people for your high,” Sherlock snapped derisively, “I don’t do it _all the time_ , and at least my addiction doesn’t harm anyone.”  
  
    “Except for yourself of course,” John retorted.  He knew what was making him so exasperated, and knew it had nothing to do with Sherlock himself, but everything to do with the addict in his own family, but he kept going, “and your family, or are you doing this just to get back at them?”  
   
    “No, I think that’s what you’re doing,” he replied coolly, “I saw you and your father leaving the principal’s office today,” he said, pompously, “his thumb kept rubbing the base of his ring finger like one would usually do with a wedding band in a case of nerves, but there was no ring there as if he’s recently taken it off and hasn’t gotten used to it yet, so either your parents are recently divorced or are _about_ to be divorced and you, as the oldest sibling in your family and so the one who’s lived the longest with an ideal, normal, lifestyle, you’re acting out.”  He’d said all of this very quickly and left John feeling rather stunned.  
   
    “Wow,” he whispered.  Sherlock, who’d been looking smug with his chin in the air and his arms behind his back, frowned and did a double take.  
  
    “Excuse me?”  
  
    “Wow, yeah, you got it, they’re about to split up,” John said, tilting his head and looking up into Sherlock’s face with a mixture of curiosity and awe.  
   
    Then a weight seemed to drop into his gut.  He felt cold, and suddenly strangely empty, something that he thought he’d been pushing back against but had finally settled into him.  Here to stay.  A hollowness crept into his chest.  He’d just said it, out loud, for the first time.  _They’re about to split up._   Now it was a reality.  Now he’d made it real.  His face dropped, defeated.  
  
    “They told us over the summer, said they didn’t have anything between them anymore and now they can’t decide who’s gonna move out so it‘s just this huge mess right now, and I just wish they could work things out, I’m angry that they can’t, or feel like they can’t...” he trailed off.  
  
    “I’ve never told anyone that,” he finally breathed, eyes unfocused, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to another, obviously uncomfortable.  
  
    “I’m–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” Sherlock muttered.  John looked back to him and saw a pink blush spreading across his cheeks in the light of the streetlamp.  John suddenly felt his embarrassment and looked away.  
   
    He realized how foolish they must look: two teenage boys standing awkwardly far apart with bleeding lips and bruised eyes as the only things in common between them.  
     
    Sherlock had his shoulders slumped down, making him appear smaller, more withdrawn.  
  
    “I’m not usually, I mean, I don’t talk to people about this kind of stuff,” John said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  There was another long pause between them, stretching into what felt like hours.  
  
    “I only do drugs on the occasion that I get so bored I think I’d like to just die or at least get high rather than have to constantly think about how bored I am,” Sherlock told him, again very quickly, his eyes on the sidewalk.  
  
    They stood, continually silent.  John had looked up at his words, realizing that for him to confess that may have been just as difficult for John to have.  
       
    “I should say, both of our addictions will kill us before long,” Sherlock said quietly.  They stared at one another with slightly narrowed eyes, each feeling the other out, searching for cues to shake hands, or nod and go their separate ways, or start arguing again.    
  
    While the air between them up until this point had been chilly, iced by their biting replies to one another, the warm autumn breeze swept in to replace it.  
  
    “I suppose you’re right,” John finally admitted, a small, sad smile lifting his lips.  He thought he saw the edge of Sherlock’s lips twitch, too, but realized it could’ve been a trick of the gloomy streetlight.  John knew right then that his violent streak would continue until he ended up in either a hospital bed or a jail cell.  He lifted his head to look straight at Sherlock, “Maybe we owe it to...”  _To stop_ he’d meant to add, but the nod Sherlock gave him told me he knew what he’d meant.  
      
    Sherlock answered with a, “Yes, I think so.”  
  
    How do two people go on from here? John wondered.  Was it going to be weird at school now?  Would Sherlock tell anyone?  Was he afraid that _John_ might tell someone about this meeting?  
  
     They stared until John finally looked away.  
   
    “Neither of us should be wandering around alone out here,” Sherlock said abruptly, looking about the empty street.  
  
    “My name’s John,” he blurted out at the realizing that they hadn’t even introduced themselves.  
  
    “I know,” Sherlock replied, staring ahead of them.  
  
   _Right._  
  
    Outside of the confines of normalcy where people usually meet, become friends, share their interests and their thoughts, they began slowly walking, side by side down the empty road beneath the night sky.  
  
  
    “See you,” John said, a little lamely when they finally reached his street.  Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his eyes sweeping John’s face, his lips, his neck, before nodding.  
  
    No understanding had passed between their lips, but they seemed to have come to a sort of truce with one another, or at least it had seemed that way to John.


	2. Chapter 2

    No understanding had passed between their lips, but they seemed to have come to a sort of truce with one another, or at least it had seemed that way to John.  
  
  
    A week went by and John hadn’t been in another fight.  The black eye and bloodied nose had blended in with the rest of his bruises from the fight with Andrew, so after he’d snuck back into his house that night, there hadn’t been any lingering questions from his parents the next day.  He’d started blocking out the noise that traveled over to his lunch table from Andrew’s.  But most of all, he stayed out of the house as much as possible.  He took to walking like he had the night he’d snuck out, and stayed the weekend at Greg’s house.  But the arguments he heard in his head, repeated moments of his parents’ fights, were still present.  
  
   _“You can’t take care of yourself, can’t hold down a job, much less anyone else, how are you supposed to work in this house, take care of these kids?”_  
  
 _“This is my home, this is my stability, Mark, you’re the one with a problem, you’re the one who needs to leave.”_  
          
  
    His anger was never truly abated, and each step up to his house filled him with more dread every time he went home.  
   
    And he hadn’t spoken to Sherlock at school since the incident, although whenever they’d catch each other’s eye they would nod an acknowledgment to one another.  John found himself becoming oddly aware of Sherlock’s movements whenever he saw him, never having a reason to notice them before.  The fact that he walks home from school rather than being picked up by someone or driving himself, his dozing in math class, his refusal to answer any teacher’s questions, although John had peeked glances at his test scores and seen that they were all A’s, the fact that he didn’t speak to anyone and no one seemed to try to speak to him, his disappearance during lunch bell, and the flexing of his long, pale fingers on his desk as he takes notes.  The more he watched, the more he noticed.  Sherlock would move his arms wildly when he did speak out, or else sit completely rigid with a frown on his face.  There was something fierce about him, John had seen that the night they’d met, but there was also something oddly feminine and almost childish about him.  
        
    And his presence in John’s life added one more thought to the rest that had been nagging at the back of his head: Did Sherlock hold up his end of their alliance?  Had he stopped his habit?  
   
    John wondered, and worried.  
  
  
    John traveled with the crowd of students out onto the lawn at the end of the day, feeling nervously excited for once, because Mary, the clever and very pretty girl from his science class, was pressed to his side and smiling up at him.  
  
    “Where’re we meeting Mike and the others?” she asked as they pushed through the front doors out into the cloudy, September overcast.  
   
    “Not sure exactly, should be somewhere around here,” he said.  He felt her wrap her hand around the crook of his elbow and warmth spread through him at her touch.  He shot her a small smile.  She returned it, brighter than before.  
   
    He then craned his neck around, looking for the familiar faces of Mike, Greg, Tom, and James lagging behind; they’d agreed to meet up and walk over to Venus Pizza after classes and Mary had enthusiastically joined along when he’d invited her.  She and Mike had been friends for awhile, but John had only recently had the chance to befriend her as they were lab partners in Chemistry class.  He soon spotted his friends standing around one of the overhang pillars accompanied by another girl.  Mary saw his line of sight and they started over together when a hand suddenly grasped John’s other arm.  He turned in surprise, ready to tell someone off, and came face to face with Sherlock.  
  
    “Oh!” John said with surprise, “hi.”  He stopped and so did Mary.  Other students muttered angrily and formed a current around them.  John was surprised by how handsome Sherlock looked in a black leather jacket, the collar up against the light breeze.  Then, the realization that he thought he was handsome made him feel a bit more scrambled.  
       
    “I was wondering if you...,” he saw Sherlock glance down at Mary and seemed to lower his voice, “would accompany me on a walk.”  
   
    John was slightly taken aback.  
  
    “I er–have plans right now,” he tried to look apologetic, feeling the awkwardness beginning to creep back in between them.  He hadn’t told his friends about his first encounter with Sherlock, mostly because he didn’t want to abuse Sherlock’s trust about his drug habit but also because their conversation on his part had turned very personal, and it wasn’t something he was ready to share with anyone else.  He still wasn’t completely sure why he’d been able to be so open with Sherlock, but he wasn’t eager to repeat it with anyone else.  He didn’t think they’d mind if he invited Sherlock to the pizza place, but it felt strange to consider it.  But he wasn’t sure why.  And of course, John reminded himself, he was somewhat trying to turn this into a date with Mary.  He didn’t know how well Sherlock would mix into all that.  
        
    “Oh,” Sherlock replied, and John saw the crestfallen look on his face, “right, well,” he ran a hand through his curls, “I’ll see you around then.”  He backed away and was just turning to leave when, without thinking, John blurted, “Wait, Sherlock,” he stepped forward, pulling his arm away from Mary.  Sherlock turned back, his eyes alight, “sure, let’s go on a walk,” John agreed.  Sherlock’s lips twitched.  
  
    John turned back to Mary, “Mary, I’m sorry, I just have to go, real quick, but I’ll meet you all at the restaurant, okay?”  Mary was frowning, but finally nodded, “Ok, see you in a bit.”  She turned and started toward the group of John’s friends.  
   
    “Shall we go, then?” Sherlock inquired, the saddened look leaving his face.  John nodded once and they started off.  Sherlock lead him around the corner of the school and toward the woods behind the soccer fields.  
   
    “Sorry to take you away from your, er...friend?”  
  
    “It’s alright, yeah, she’s my friend, Mary, she’s in our chemistry–.”  
  
    “Yes, yes I know,” he answered.  John wondered why he’d asked then.  
  
    “And you want to be more than friends with her, yes?”  
  
    John flushed pink and muttered, “Maybe.”  
   
    He and Mary got on really well in class.  Their humor matched, many times turning into flirting, the usual teenage ritual.  She enjoyed writing and cooking, both of which he found intriguing and quite endearing, although he didn’t know much about her apart from her hobbies.  But taking things further seemed like the next logical step.  And she was very pretty.  
          
    They walked in silence for a while, following a dirt path that entered into the wooded area.  Through the trees on one side, John could make out the outline of some houses.  He’d never been through here before, always going the opposite direction to get home, but Sherlock seemed to know where they were going.  
   
     _This is weird, this is so weird_ , John couldn’t help but think as the silence between them stretched on.  
  
   _Say something._  
  
    But just as he opened his mouth to ask what Sherlock had wanted with asking him on this walk, Sherlock spoke.  
              
    “So, I see you haven’t gotten into anymore fights this week.”  
  
    John closed his mouth, “Mhm, yeah, I’ve been er–taking some measures.”  He thought of the long stretches of time he spent out of the house, but the string of arguments continued.  
  
     _“Janice, calm down, there’s no need to throw things, I just want to discuss, like adults, how we’re going to do this.”_  
  
 _“This is how we’re going to do this, you’re going to move out, and I’m going to stay here with my children.”_  
  
    John shook his head as if to shake out the voices.  
  
    “And your...,” John nodded at Sherlock’s arm that was covered by his coat sleeve.  
  
    “That’s why I asked you to accompany me on this walk,” Sherlock said, staring straight ahead of him.  
  
    “Why’s that?” John cocked his head, confused.  
  
    “I was feeling,” he pursed his lips, “an urge to start again.”  
   
    “Oh,” said John, understanding finally hitting him, “ _Oh_ , well, what would you like to do?  I mean, we can go do something to, uh, keep your mind off of it.”  John felt, and he wasn’t completely sure why, a feeling of triumph in his chest.  This is what they’d agreed to, he had felt.  To keep one another on track, to keep each other from falling into their respective addictive, and frankly dangerous, dependencies.  He felt almost touched that Sherlock had come to him, had felt comfortable enough with him to ask for help.  Sherlock, the one person in school who seemed like he never needed, or wanted, other people around him.  
   
    “Walking should be okay for now, I just needed someone to talk with,” Sherlock said.  John noticed his shoulders relax, almost like he was relieved.  
  
    “Oh, okay,” John said, turning back to watch his feet in order to be sure he didn’t trip over any tree roots.  
  
    “But I’m open to suggestions,” Sherlock said quickly.  
      
    “Well, we could go to...my...house?” John could’ve kicked himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and nearly winced when he’d said them.  His thought process had been to suggest playing video games or watching a movie, but he hadn’t had friends over since his parents’ divorce talk had started.  He was embarrassed by their yelling, and certainly hadn’t wanted to talk about it with anyone.  And, he suddenly realized, he knew nothing about Sherlock.  Nothing about his interests or his hobbies.  Maybe he didn’t even like playing video games or watching movies.  
  
    They’d come to a clearing where a bench sat isolated under the trees and Sherlock stopped walking.  
   
    He seemed a little surprised, his eyebrows raised, “Well..I mean, would you be okay with that?”  
   
    “Yeah, yeah of course, I mean, that’s what friends do, right?  Hang out?”  John felt his cheeks flush again.  Maybe that’s what normal friends do, but this seemed like the furthest-from-normal friendship John had ever had.  
   
    Sherlock’s eyes went very wide and his mouth parted, but no words came out.  John’s insides turned over.  Had he been too forward?  Perhaps this wasn’t what Sherlock had been expecting.  
   
    “Friends?” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper.  
  
    “Yeah, I mean,” John looked away, “I thought...”  _Right?_   They were friends, weren’t they?  Acquaintances at least.  
  
    “Yes, that sounds good,” Sherlock answered swiftly, his voice lighter than it had been.  
   
    “Good,” John smiled.  He felt his chest constrict when Sherlock returned the smile.  He looked quickly away, attempting to steady his breathing.  
     
    “I come here sometimes just to think,” Sherlock mentioned offhandedly, motioning toward the bench as they passed.  
  
    “Seems...nice,” John noted, lifting his head to look through the branches of the trees, the multi-colored leaves waving in a light breeze.  They continued walking.  
   
    The forest path eventually looped around and diverted onto a sidewalk on a street not too far from John’s house.  
   
    “So, do you play video games?” John asked in an attempt to keep the conversation going.  Sherlock shook his head, “No, I never have.”  
  
    “Oh, well, would you like to?  I have some games at my house, maybe we could do that?”  
  
    “Sounds enjoyable enough,” Sherlock remarked.  John looked away and smirked.  He wanted to comment Sherlock’s strange wording for everything, his matter-of-fact tone for his responses, but he was afraid of offending him.  
      
    “What do you like to do then?” John asked, still hesitant, but feeling intrigued.  
    Sherlock was quiet for a moment, seeming to think over the right words when he finally said, “Deductions.”  
  
    “Deductions?”  
  
    Sherlock nodded, “Yes, I enjoy looking at someone and deducing certain things about their life.”  
  
    John frowned, confused.  Did Sherlock equate that to doing something like playing video games for a hobby?  
   
    “Oh,” was all John said.  He considered asking Sherlock to deduce something about him, just for fun, to see what he could come up with.  Sherlock was strange, but John found that fascinating.  Then he remembered the deductions Sherlock had made about his dad, and didn’t exactly feel keen on repeating the experience.  There were things he didn’t want to know about himself, things he didn’t want to hear.  
       
    “Well,” he started again, “do you like movies?”  
  
    “Um, yes, I do.”  
  
    “What kinds?”  
  
    “I enjoy existentialist films,” he glanced sideways at John’s bemused look, “but Pixar movies are entertaining enough.”  
  
    John couldn’t help but grin.  
  
    “I also play the violin,” Sherlock mentioned as they crossed over a street filled with cars waiting at a red light.    
  
    “Oh?  Do you play for the school band?”  
  
    Sherlock made a face, and John almost laughed.  Already he was beginning to get a slight handle on Sherlock, as confusing as he was.  Extracurricular activities: no.  
  
    “No, Mr. DaVroop keeps bugging me to join, but I prefer to play and compose for myself.”  
  
    “You compose, then?”  
  
    Sherlock nodded.    
  
    “That’s impressive,” John remarked, his eyes wide.    
  
    “Is it?” Sherlock frowned, diverting his gaze toward John.    
  
    “Absolutely, I can’t imagine playing music, much less writing it,” he shook his head.  Sherlock’s head seemed to lift a little higher.  
  
    “It’s simple, you know, just notes linking together in a pleasing manner,” he shrugged.  John had to stop himself from laughing again.  
   
         “Right, well, maybe to you,” he smirked.    
  
    “What does that mean?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed again.    
  
    John just looked at him until finally admitting, “I don’t completely understand you.” _And I don’t completely understand myself when I’m around you_.  He was surprised as that thought passed through his head.  
  
    “Understandable.”  John didn’t know how to take that, but kept walking by his side.  
  
    “I didn’t mean...,” John began, backtracking once he realized how rude he’d sounded, “I just meant we don’t know each other, but I’d like to.”  Although that hadn’t exactly been what he’d meant, the words still rang true.  
  
    Sherlock kept his eyes locked ahead and only said, “I see.”    
  
    Another silence stretched on.  John wanted to keep asking questions but was afraid of Sherlock becoming annoyed.      
  
    They meandered until they were right in front of John’s house, but before going up the steps, John stopped.     
   
    “Um, you know, my parents...,” John started, hoping to warn him.  
   
    “I know,” Sherlock said softly, “remember?”  
   
    John felt his face heating up again.  _Right._  
  
    He unlocked the door and they stepped inside.  Immediately, John heard the television on in the living room, but no shouting.  _Dad must be working from his office today._   His father was a creative director at a graphics company that made animations for news broadcast.  He’d been spending most of his time as of late in the office as opposed to working from home as he sometimes did.    
  
    John beckoned Sherlock up the stairs, but as soon as they started up them, John heard his mom call, “John, is that you?”  He winced and called back, “Yeah, Mom.”  They stepped back down the stairs and John walked down the short entrance hall and stood in the doorway of the living room.  Sherlock followed behind.  
  
    “Mom, this is my friend, Sherlock,” John said, gesturing toward Sherlock.  John’s mom looked a bit of a mess, but she always seemed to recently.  Her light hair was pulled up into tangles on the top of her head and she sat on the couch in her bathrobe, the family laptop on her legs and the television chattering in front of her.    
  
    “Oh, a new friend,” she pushed the laptop aside and came over, holding her hand out to Sherlock.  He shook it and muttered, “nice to meet you.”  
  
    “It’s nice to meet you, too,” her eyes flicked over Sherlock’s smooth face, “and such a handsome young man you are.”  
  
    “Thank you,” Sherlock responded softly, his eyes on her face.  John wondered what Sherlock was thinking, what he was _deducing_.  He felt nervous at the thought.  
   
    “Alright, well we’re going upstairs,” said John hurriedly.  
  
    “Your father won’t be home for another few hours, so enjoy it while you can,” John shuddered at her words, biting back a harsh retort, and started again down the hallway.  
   
     _Harsh.  Mom, sweet Mom, please come back._  
  
    Sherlock didn’t mention his mom’s words, which John was grateful for.  Harry’s door was closed when they reached the landing, which John was also somewhat thankful for.  He wasn’t keen on showing Sherlock around like a dog, or describing why they’d become friends so quickly.    
  
    “Sorry my mom’s a bit...,” he didn’t know how to describe her, actually.  
  
    “She just hasn’t been sleeping well,” Sherlock asserted.    
  
    “Oh, right,” John rolled his words around in his head.  He was glad that was all Sherlock had seen.     
  
    He opened the door to his bedroom and they entered.  John sat down on the edge of his bed and watched Sherlock look around.  He suddenly became hyper aware of the dirty clothes on the floor at the foot of his bed, the unorganized mess of DVDs and their cases on his bookshelf, and books shoved haphazardly on top of one another to make them fit.     
   
    “Er–sorry for the mess,” he started pushing his clothes under the bedskirt.  
  
    “I think it’s brilliant,” Sherlock stated.  John was surprised at his words.    
   
    “Well, uh, so here’re all the games I’ve got,” John said, dropping to the floor and dragging out a clear plastic bin from under his bed.    
  
    “I’ve got some NES games, although we’ll have to hook up the Nintendo for those, Dragon Warrior’s one of my favorites, but then I’ve also got some PS3 games that might be preferable,” he started pulling out cases and showing them to Sherlock, who had sat down across from him and was looking slightly bewildered as John rattled off game names and summaries.    
      
    “Whatever you want to play,” Sherlock said politely.  
  
    “Oh come on, you have to have a preference,” John said, downtrodden, “and you’re not getting out of playing either.”    
  
    Sherlock narrowed his eyes but they were still alight.  Already John was picking up on his boundaries, which, for some reason, pleased him.       
  
    “Ok...,” he stuck his hand into the box, eyes on the ceiling, and pulled one out, “this one.”    
  
    John laughed, took the game from him, _Fallout 3_ , and started it up.  They sat beside one another on the floor, backs leaning against John’s bed.  Trying to be discrete, he sent a quick text to Mike, apologizing that he wasn’t going to be able to meet up with them.  He felt guilty, especially when his thoughts turned to Mary, but if he thought Sherlock needed him, he wouldn’t throw away Sherlock’s reliance on him.  
   
    John told Sherlock the different controls, and showed him how to move their character without the camera spinning wildly in front of them.  Sherlock was rubbish at it, but when their character became a rag doll and tumbled down a steep incline, appendages flying wildly, it was the first time that John heard Sherlock actually laugh, a low, heartfelt, chuckle, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth wide.  John couldn’t stop staring.    
  
    They switched back and forth whenever one of them died, Sherlock only lasting a couple of minutes usually, but John would encourage him to have another go whenever this happened.      
  
    “Are you feeling better?” John asked hesitantly after they’d been playing for about an hour.  
  
    “Loads,” Sherlock said, “I actually hadn’t thought about it since we started playing.”  
  
    John smiled proudly, “Good.”  
  
    “And how are you doing?”  
  
    “Good,” John nodded as he said it, because it was true.  They both grinned and turned back to the TV.  
  
    After a sizable silence had grown between them again, John asked, “Do you do anything else for fun?  Other than make deductions and play violin, that is.”  
   
    “Hm,” Sherlock thought for a moment, “listening to music.”  
  
    “What kind?” John probed, curious.  
  
    “All kinds, classical, jazz, angry music...”  
  
    “Angry music?”  
  
    “Yes, hardcore, punk, grindcore.”  
  
    “Grindcore?”  
  
    Sherlock sighed, “Yes, it’s a type of music focused on fast paced instrumental and indecipherable lyrics.”  
  
    “Sounds terrible,” John winced.  
  
    He saw Sherlock roll his eyes, “I will play it for you sometime, then.”  
  
    John laughed.     
   
   _I don’t completely understand you_ , he thought again.  
  
    But I want to.     
  
  
    “So why don’t you talk to more people?”  He was trying to be kind, trying to say _because you’re so interesting_ , but Sherlock didn’t answer immediately and John couldn’t really blame him.  He was sure there was a reason, and possibly Sherlock didn’t want to divulge it.  
  
    “Most people I find utterly boring and completely useless,” he finally answered.  John’s eyes widened.  
  
    “They worry about the dumbest things and couldn’t care less about anything important, they have the smallest brains and the loudest mouths, no, I think it’s better that I just keep to myself,” he chanced a glance at John who’s mouth was hanging open slightly, “well, other than you.”  
  
    “O-oh,” John didn’t quite know how to respond to that.  They went back to playing.  
  
    “What about you?”  
  
    “Hm?”  
  
    “Why don’t _you_ talk to more people?”  
  
    “What do you mean?” John asked, confused, “I have quite a few friends.”  
  
    “Four.”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “Four, you have four friends.”  
  
    “Well, yeah, plus you, and lots of other people I just talk to, you know, casually.”  
   
    Sherlock paused.  
  
    “How long have you known your other friends for?”  
  
    John thought for a second, “Uhh, I’ve known Mike and Greg since fourth grade and then we met Tom and James in sixth.”  
   
    “Hm.”  
  
    “Did you have any friends at your old school?”  
  
    Sherlock shook his head.  
  
     _Has he never had a real friend before?_  
  
    “How about a girlfriend?”  
  
    Sherlock made an indistinct noise in his throat.  
   
     _Boyfriend?_   He wanted to ask, but was nervous.  Shouldn’t be nervous, though, he told himself, queer people weren’t completely unheard of around here.  Hell, look at Harry.  But he stayed silent.  
  
    “I’ve never had any interest in being in a relationship of the _romantic_ type.”  
  
   _Oh._      
  
    “What about siblings?” John wondered, quickly changing the subject.  He was trying to piece together Sherlock’s life, but it all seemed a bit hazy.  Even if he asked him every question he could imagine about his entire existence, he still thought he wouldn’t really know him.  He was, John surmised, just someone who’s presence had to be endured to understand them.  
  
    “I have an older brother, Mycroft, other extended family is basically nonexistent, I have a habit of collecting trinkets that are utterly meaningless, sometimes I hack into the newspaper website and post fake articles, and occasionally I read mystery novels but ultimately literary fiction is my forte,” Sherlock grinned a half-smile, “anything else you want to know?”  
  
    At that, John’s face broke out into a smile as well, “not at the moment.”  
  
     
    Two hours after the start of their game, John’s father arrived home.  John heard him in the entrance hall, then on the stairs.  
  
    “I’d better go,” Sherlock said, saving the game.  
  
    “Alright then,” they both stood.  Unsure of whether he should clap Sherlock on the back or shake his hand or even hug him, they stood there awkwardly staring at one another.  
  
    “I’ll walk you down,” John offered finally.  
  
    When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock turned to him and said, very quietly, “Thank you.”  John met his gaze and felt his chest constrict again.  
  
    “Anytime,” he muttered.  And Sherlock was out the door.  
  
  
    John stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, feeling dazed.  
   
    Finally, he trudged down the hallway into the living room again.  His mom was still there, sitting on the couch, completely engrossed in the game show that was on.  
  
    “Hi John,” she said, looking up and giving him a wide smile.  She beckoned him over, and he obliged, sitting down.  He heard his father’s footsteps above them, but tried to ignore it.  He felt tired, but better than usual.  There was something filling the emptiness sitting in the pit of his stomach.    
  
    “Did your friend go?” Mom asked.  John nodded.  
  
    “He seemed nice, where’d you meet him?”  
  
    “School,” John yawned.    
  
    “Glad to hear you haven’t been fighting anymore,” she said.  John just nodded again.  He didn’t mind this fluffy talk.  It felt comfortable.  It felt familiar.  And there was no trace of alcohol on her breath.  
   
    He wanted to talk to her to ask her what she and Dad were planning on doing.  What was going to happen?  This unknowingness was the tension creating the knot in his abdomen, it was the pain he felt before going to bed, and the thoughts he had before punching someone’s lights out.  
  
   _What’s going to happen to me?_  
  
    He wanted to tell her that he and Harry both were having a rough time of it.  He wanted to confide in her about his anger issues, how they’ve always been there, just below the surface, waiting for something to boil it over and this had been the trigger.  
         
    But his mouth wouldn’t move.  His nerves screamed for him to talk, the words were right there sitting in his throat.  But this moment with his mom, where they sat in this room that could’ve been floating above the life that had fallen apart, a bubble of normalcy, he felt too calm to disrupt it.        
  
    “I’ve missed you, Johnny,” his mom said, putting an arm around his shoulders and hugging him close to her, her eyes still fixed on the TV set, “We never get to talk anymore, I’m afraid we might never have the time again.”  
   
    He was surprised when his anger didn’t flare.  Surprised when he lay his head on her shoulder and placidly watched TV along with her.  
   


	3. Chapter 3

    “Oh you bastard!” John shouted with a laugh.  He watched Yoshi’s car spin out of control and fly off the road into darkness as Sherlock laughed darkly, driving Peach’s car over the finish line.  
  
    “I owed you for all of those banana peels last race,” Sherlock said smugly, “although it’s all ultimately absurd.”  John couldn’t even feel angry, he only shook his head in disbelief that Sherlock had finally learned to beat him at a game.   
   
    Over the past few weeks, a routine had started between them.  Usually every few days or so Sherlock would call John up, or catch him after school, and they’d go for a walk through the woods and end up at John’s house.  Most days they played through the exorbitant amounts of video games John owned, but some days they watched stupid cartoons or cheesy movies.  A casual familiarity had settled into their lives.  John found comfort there.   
               
    “Man, I’ve _got_ to write this paper tonight,” John groaned, leaning his head back against his mattress.  
  
    “The one for English?” Sherlock asked, restarting another race.  
  
    “Yeah, and it’s not even like I don’t know what to write, it’s just putting the words on the page,” he leaned forward again to watch the screen.  
  
    “You’ll get it done, don’t worry.”  
  
    “Have you finished yours?”  
  
    “Nah, I’ll write it tomorrow morning.  Mrs. Barnes always hates my papers anyway.”  
  
    “Maybe because you write them the morning they’re due,” John laughed.  
  
    Sherlock thought for a second then shook his head, “No, it’s just because I complain about how awful the books we read are.”  John spluttered with laughter.  
    “I’d love to read _your_ essays sometime.”  
  
    “You really wouldn’t,” Sherlock chuckled, “they’re terrible.”  
  
    They both burst out into fits of laughter.  
   
    “You know,” Sherlock started, his fingers running lithely over the controls, “your racing is much more on form when we start playing, you appear to become weary by the third match,”   
  
    “Are you saying you’re not actually good at this, I just get lazier and let you win?”   
  
    “Perhaps,” Sherlock smirked.  
    
    “Shut it,” John playfully pushed Sherlock on the shoulder.  Sherlock looked sideways at him, his mouth open in a smile.  John’s stomach turned over and he forced his eyes back to the television.  
  
    “Whenever we go to my house I’ll bring out the board games, and then we’ll see who’s the real winner,” Sherlock said haughtily.  
  
    “And when’s that gonna be?” John shot back.  
  
    He saw Sherlock shrug out of the corner of his eye, “Whenever you’d like.”  
    “Ok, next time we get together, we’re playing board games,” John agreed, then added, “just not Risk.”  
  
    “Aw come on,” Sherlock moaned, “that’s one of my favorites.”  
  
    “Not Candyland?  Or Chutes and Ladders?  Because I could probably kick your ass at those,” John remarked.  
  
    Sherlock was about to come back with something no doubt snarky when they heard the front door open downstairs.   
  
    “I’d better go,” as was Sherlock’s cue.  It had become customary for Sherlock to leave whenever John’s father came home as to avoid any tense situations between John’s parents.  
  
    They got to their feet, but Sherlock didn’t turn toward the door.  
  
    “So they haven’t worked it out yet?” his voice was suddenly low, concerned.  
  
    “No,” John shook his head, looking at the floor, “they both still want to stay here, and it doesn’t even seem to matter what Harry and I want,” John said, bitterly.  
  
    “How is Harry?”  
  
    “She’s alright, I think, I’m not really sure actually, we haven’t talked much recently.”  
  
    “She talks to me at school sometimes,” said Sherlock, his brown furrowed.  
  
    “Does she?”  
  
    “Yeah, she’ll say hi to me in the halls or tell me she likes my shirt, I don’t know why,” Sherlock said, looking troubled.  John had introduced Sherlock and Harry the following time that Sherlock had come over.  
  
    “She usually gets on alright with my friends, she’s just being nice since she knows we know each other.”  
  
    Sherlock nodded in apparent understanding.  
  
    “I hope things get better,” Sherlock said, his voice just above a whisper, his eyes on his shoes.  
  
    “Thanks,” said John, “me too.”  They stood in silence for a few seconds, avoiding each others eyes, when Sherlock slowly shifted his hand forward.  His fingers brushed along John’s knuckles and John felt his heartbeat escalate, became automatically aware of the blood pumping through his ears.  His brain told him to pull away but his muscles wouldn’t obey.  Sherlock’s fingers closed around his hand and squeezed once, a gesture of reassurance.   
   
      Then he was gone.  Out the door and down the stairs.  
  
  
    John let out a long, low breath that felt as if he’d been holding it in all day.    
  
    He never tried to put too much thought into his relationship with Sherlock, because he always came out of his thoughts confused.  He tried to compare their friendship to his friendship with Tom or James, but the parallel wasn’t a complete mirror.  He and any of his close friends could hug, put an arm around their shoulders, all squish together on the couch and it was never weird.  But he and Sherlock always sat pointedly far enough away from one another that they weren’t touching, even John’s hand on his shoulder earlier had felt oddly intimate, and Sherlock’s hand on his...  
  
    Of course, he told himself, he and Sherlock had barely known each other a month and a half, and he’d been friends with Greg, Mike, Tom, and James since middle school and before.   
   
    And, needless to say, the nature of his and Sherlock’s friendship was certainly _different_.  They existed in this friendship to keep one another in line, to be sure neither of them reverted back to their addictions.  Not exactly normal, was it?  So it would make sense that their friendship was different.  And there was a certain kind of attraction of having a new friend, there’s excitement there.  
  
    Then again, their friendship had transformed quickly into that of seemingly normal friends, hanging out on a regular basis, joking around, being causal.  But that didn’t explain the dream he’d had last night of Sherlock’s thin figure laying under him...  
  
    John shook his head; always confused whenever he tried to think too hard about it.  
  
\-------  
  
  
    “SHERLOCK,” John yelled, startling most of his classmates into turning at his shout.  Sherlock, leaning against the brick wall of the school, looked up in surprise, his bright eyes wide under the breath of exhaled, gray smoke.  It was break, and the courtyard had just gone very quiet.  John felt the heat rising in his face.  He waited for a slow babble to start up again before marching over to Sherlock and plucking the cigarette from between his fingers.  
  
    “Didn’t we have an entire conversation about this?” he breathed, glancing cautiously around at some of the lingering faces looking their way.  
  
    “Those don’t count,” Sherlock huffed, snatching it back and sticking it between his lips.  
  
    “That’ll kill you as easily as the other stuff will,” John hissed, his voice nearly a whisper.  
  
    “But not as quickly,” Sherlock argued, and John was sure he saw his lips twitch this time.    
  
    “If you let me have this, I’ll tell you the answers to next week’s math test,” Sherlock offered.  John rolled his eyes, working hard not to smile, and making Sherlock sulk, “was worth a try,” he muttered.  While formidable and astonishing at first, Sherlock’s intelligence and quick wit had turned into normal, everyday part of their conversation.  John still marveled at it often, but their weeks together had made Sherlock seem so much more...normal.      
  
    John took the cigarette back, dropped it into the grass, and ground it into the dirt.  
  
    “Cut it out,” he said warningly.  Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.  John turned and walked back to where James and Mike were standing.   
  
    “What was that all about?” James asked.  
  
    John hadn’t exactly been prepared to explain himself; he’d been so surprised by Sherlock, “Oh, uh, he promised to stop smoking and I was just keeping tabs on him.”  
  
    He saw James and Mike exchange a confused look.  
  
    “Didn’t know you knew him,” said Mike, looking over John’s shoulder, presumably back at Sherlock.  
  
    “Ah, yeah, yeah we became...uh, friends not too long ago, we have a bunch of classes together.”  
  
    “Yeah, so do you and I and I’ve never seen you talk to him,” said James, raising an eyebrow.  
  
    John knew his cheeks were blazing red, “Well, he’s in my Chemistry class and we talk all the time then.”  
  
    “Oh, gottcha,” James and Mike seemed to lose interest in the conversation after that and began prattling on about the school’s soccer game the previous Thursday.  John nodded when it seemed appropriate but his thoughts were elsewhere.  He glanced over his shoulder but Sherlock had gone.  He hoped he hadn’t gone around to the back of the building to pull out another cigarette.  John tried not to think about it.  
  
  
  
\------  
  
  
    “I’ll get the materials,” Mary said, sliding off of her stool and heading to the front of the room with half the class.   
   
    John watched after her until he felt someone’s presence beside him.  
  
    “John, why can’t we be partners?” Sherlock whined, not bothering to keep his voice down.  John raised his eyebrows, amused at Sherlock’s sulking.  He looked over his shoulder to the desk where Sherlock had been sitting.  Molly, a girl John had known since primary school sat playing nervously with her long hair.  She kept glancing up at Sherlock, her cheeks bright pink.  
  
    “I’m with Mary,” John countered, glancing to the front of the classroom where Mary had a number of items clutched in her arms.  
  
    “She can work with Molly, John, please, don’t make me talk to other... _people_ ,” he grimaced.  John rolled his eyes, but smiled.  
  
    “But I like Mary,” John whispered.   
   
    “I thought you liked me,” Sherlock scowled and put his head in his arms on the desk.  John opened his mouth to speak.  Not like that he should’ve say, but his mouth refused.  
  
    “And I had a visit with _Principal Yates_ again, today,” Sherlock said in an annoyed voice.    
  
    “Again?” John raised an eyebrow, “What for?”      
  
    Sherlock shrugged but continued, “The usual, I refuse to join band, I insult my teachers and sometimes they hear me and he just gets so testy about it.”  He made a face.  
  
    “Did you want to hang out tonight?” John offered.  
  
    “I would but I have, er–something,” he sighed.   
   
    “What’s that?”  
  
    “Just,” Sherlock lazily waved his hand, “stuff.”  
  
    John raised his eyebrows again at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
    “I’ve got a recital, alright?” he hissed, looking around to make sure no one else had heard him.  
  
    “A recital?” a smile crept onto John’s face, “I thought you didn’t play for anyone else.”  
  
    “Yes well, I was _convinced_ , I suppose, although I very well may mess up on purpose just so Mr. DaVroop doesn’t ask me back,” he sniffed.  John grinned.  
  
    “What time is it?”  
  
    “Hm?  There’s a clock right there on the wall, John.”  
  
    “No, no,” John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “when’s your recital?”  
  
    “You aren’t thinking of coming, are you?” Sherlock’s face was contorted into a frown, “don’t come I’ll be–.”    
  
    “Hey, budge up there,” Mary was back, looking pointedly at Sherlock.  He huffed, but dragged himself out of her chair and went to stand in line at the front of the class.  John let out a long breath.  
  
    They began their experiment, soaking a dollar bill in an alcohol-water solution then setting it on fire, with little chatter.   
   
    “I’ll do this,” Mary smirked, slipping the matches from John’s hand once the dollar had been soaked.  He sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but smiled and gestured toward the dollar bill between a clamp.  
  
    “So, I heard Harry’s throwing a party next weekend,” Mary said nonchalantly.  John raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Is she?”  
  
    Mary laughed, “You didn’t know?”  
  
    “Gee, I haven’t talked to her in a bit, I guess,” John admitted.  A party?  At their house?  He didn’t know how to feel about that.  At their school, throwing parties was like a beginning-of-the-school-year ritual that generally died out by Christmas once everyone was either mad at their friends or had been grounded until summer.  He liked parties alright, at least when they were thrown by his friends, but he had never thrown one himself.  From the state of the house of the ones he had been to, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.  Next weekend was of course the weekend when Mom was visiting her sister and Dad would be on his week long business trip.  That must be why.   
   
    “Well, do you mind if I come?” she asked, looking slyly at him.  He felt his heart beating out of control in his chest.  He always felt comfortable talking with her just about school work or their weekend plans, he’d love a chance to get to know her outside of school.  And that smile she gave him whenever she laughed.    
  
    “No, not at all, I’d love it if you came,” he grinned back, a bit shyly, running a hand through his short hair.          
  
     John heard another huff behind him, but didn’t turn to look.  
  
  
\-------  
  
  
    The recital was to take place at 7:00pm according to the school website that John had dutifully checked as soon as he’d gotten home.  He was distinctly curious to hear Sherlock play violin, having always been refused whenever he brought it up.  He didn’t care that Sherlock told him not to come, he couldn’t stop him once he was there in the audience.      
  
    “Harry, wanna come to the band recital?” John asked, looking into Harry’s room as he pulled on his dark blue coat over his white buttoned up shirt and gray vest, not exactly sure of the dress code for such events.  
  
    Harry, who was sitting at her desk next to the doorway, looked up, her brow furrowed.  
  
    “The band recital?  Seriously?”  
  
    “Well, yeah,” John went pink, “Sherlock’s playing.”  
  
    “Oh,” she said, glancing down at the History textbook on the desk in front of her, “I guess it’s better than studying this shit, alright then.”  
  
    They said their goodbyes to their dad who was sitting in his study and arrived at the school only a few minutes later.  The atrium outside of the auditorium was full of meandering parents and siblings of those in the band.    
  
    “Look at this turnout,” Harry muttered sarcastically into his ear as they filed into the auditorium which was more than a little bit sparse.  He shushed her as they took their seats near the back.    
  
    The recital began with Lily Row, a Sophomore, on piano.  Her playing was enjoyable enough, John thought, but then Callie Singh joined in and sang on the second song, and her voice just couldn’t quite reach those high notes.  
  
    “On second thought, maybe studying wasn’t so bad,” Harry muttered as the audience clapped Lily and Callie off the stage.  John held a hand over his mouth to keep from sniggering.  
  
    They sat through collaborations of string instruments and clarinets and the full band, until finally Mr. DaVroop introduced Sherlock.  
  
    “Next up, we have a special guest who’s playing for us tonight at my request, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
    The crowd applauded and Harry catcalled loudly as Sherlock, his face as stoic and handsome as ever walked out onto the stage in a sharp black and white tuxedo, his violin in his hands.    
  
    John’s heartbeat sped up at the sight of him.  He leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, watching excitedly.    
  
    Sherlock placed his violin under his chin, set the bow, and complete silence fell.  No one moved in the auditorium, no coughs or shuffling of programs.    
  
    He took a deep breath, and began to play.  A slow, sorrowful tune filled the auditorium.  Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on a far off point in the distance, but as his movements quickened, his fingers flit like pale spiders over the strings, he closed his eyes.    
  
    John followed suit.  The music, beautiful and fluid, washed over him in wave after wave.  There was no time for disbelief that this was Sherlock playing, Sherlock who took everything so literally with so little hint of sentiment, because somehow it made the most sense.  He expressed here what he couldn’t any other place.  He was as sentimental as any of them, and now John knew it.  It went on and on and John wished so much that he knew the story that Sherlock was trying to tell, but he finally gave in, realizing that to understand he only had to listen.    
  
    Finally, it ended, a minor note ringing out.   
              
    The crowd exploded into applause and John opened his eyes, only to meet Sherlock’s gaze from the stage.  Sherlock bowed, then as he stood up straight again, his eyes found John’s once more, making his breath catch in his throat.   
   
    “Woah,” Harry whispered beside him, “that was kind of amazing.”  
  
     _Kind of?_   He wanted to say, but thought better of it.  Sherlock was making his way off the stage and the final entire band set entered.    
  
    After the final applause, John and Harry found themselves out in the atrium, John searching the crowd for a tall mop of dark curls.  Finally, John spotted Sherlock standing off to the side with two people who looked as if they could’ve been his parents.  His gaze met Sherlock’s again and he watched Sherlock say something, then slip away, toward where John and Harry were standing.      
   
    “That was brilliant,” John called as soon as Sherlock was in earshot.  
  
    “I told you not to come,” Sherlock mentioned, sniffily, but John also noticed his lips turn up very slightly at John’s words.    
  
    “Yeah, fuck, that was amazing, I never knew John had such a genius for a friend,” Harry prodded.   
   
    “Thank you,” Sherlock said, although his eyes remained on John.    
  
    “Did you write that song?” John wondered, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.     
    Sherlock nodded shortly, “yes.”  
  
    “It was...well, beautiful,” John said, amazed, and slightly embarrassed.  Sherlock didn’t respond, but his eyes twinkled at his words.    
  
    “Maybe I’ll play for you more often then, since you so enjoyed it,” Sherlock told him, his voice low and soft.  John knew he was pleased more than he was letting on, he saw it in him.  They stood for a moment, just smiling shyly at one another, until Harry interrupted, “Well, we’d better be off, lots of studying to do, great job, again, Sherlock, I’m very impressed.” John looked over at her, almost having forgotten she was there.  Her eyebrows were raised at him, her look somehow pointed.  Knowing?  She reached her hand out, and Sherlock tentatively shook it, seeming a bit surprised.  John cleared his throat and said, “Mm, yeah” then just nodded in Sherlock’s general direction.  
  
    They turned to go.  
  
    “You alright?  You seem a bit _out of it_ ,” Harry noted, emphasizing the last word as they reached the doors.  
  
    “Huh?  I’m fine,” John said, shoving his hands into his pockets and bracing himself against the cold as they stepped outside.   
   
      
\-------  
  
  
    “John, what’d you want?” Tom asked, rifling through the bag of alcohol he’d nicked from his parents’ collection.  Tom, Greg, Mike, James, and John were lounging in Mike’s bedroom, the room over the garage in his house.  It was Saturday night and their traditional pizza and a movie night whenever they were all free.   
   
    “Nothing for me,” John replied, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table in front of the futon.  They always had their pizza nights at Mike’s because he had the most room and the nicest TV in his bedroom.  Also because of the fact that Mike’s parents went to bed early even on weekends so their drinking, when they had any alcohol, could go unsupervised.    
  
    “Nothing, John?  I mean, I’ve got just about everything,” Tom said, pulling out a full bottle of Jack Daniels.    
  
    John’s heart sank, but James came to the rescue and kicked Tom in the shin.  
  
    “Cut it out, alright?” James whispered.  
  
    “I’ll have some of that,” Greg cut in to break the tense silence that had fallen.  
  
    “Sorry, mate,” Tom muttered to John, realizing his mistake.  
  
    Each member of the group knew everyone else’s family issues, although John had worked hard to keep the extent of his quiet.    
  
      
    Greg’s dad had been killed in the military when he was six.  
  
    Mike’s parents don’t sleep in the same bed anymore, although they remain married and they don’t speak to any of their extended family.    
  
    James’s mom is a shut-in who hasn’t been out of the house since James was going through puberty.  
  
    And Tom’s parents are still married and live relatively normal day-to-day lives, although both of his older sisters had gotten pregnant in their teens.  
  
    “So James, get anywhere with Sally, have you?”   
  
    James snorted, “Not a chance.”  
  
    “You two haven’t fucked then?” Mike cut in.  
  
    “Jesus, Mike,” John covered his face with his hand, “let’s leave the dude-talk for when we’re...I dunno...douchebags.”  Greg, Tom, and James burst out laughing.  Tom handed John a cup of coke.  
  
    “Well I’m just curious,” Mike scowled, accepting a spiked coke from Tom.  
  
    “And what about you and Mary?” he pushed.  
  
    “What about us?” John asked, sipping from his cup.  
  
    “Haven’t made a move yet, then?” Greg nudged him, “she was all disappointed when you didn’t show up at the pizza place.”  John couldn’t help but grin a little.    
    
    “Well, she’s coming to a party my sister’s throwing next weekend.”   
  
    “Harry’s throwing a party?” Tom cut in, his eyes lighting up.  
  
    “Apparently so,” John shrugged, accepting a piece of pizza from Greg.  
  
    “Are we invited?” James asked excitedly.  
  
    “I don’t see why not.”  
  
    “But anyway,” Greg cut back in, “Mary?  You gonna ask her out?”  
  
    John felt his cheeks flush and hoped no one would comment, “Dunno” he said, stuffing a bite of pizza into his mouth.  For some reason, Sherlock’s face popped into his head.    
  
     _Wonder what he’s doing_.  John tried to imagine him sitting in a made-up room, reading probably, itching to deduce someone’s worst secrets no doubt.  
  
    “Look at him grinning,” Tom snickered.  John was brought abruptly back to the conversation and flushed more than he already had been.      
  
    “I’ll go pick a movie,” John said hurriedly, setting his piece of pizza on top of the box and standing up to boisterous laugher from his friends.  
  
    John stood at Mike’s bookshelf, looking over the movie titles.  
  
    “The Terminator?”  
  
    “Jesus, no, Mike, why do you even have that?”  More laughter.  
  
    “Watchmen?”  
  
    A chorus of, “No” answered him.  
  
    “Some movie called Persona?  What the hell’s that?”  
  
    “Oh, that’s Clara’s, she left it here when we were dating, some weird ass foreign art film,” Mike answered.      
  
    “Man, that just reminded me, this kid in my French class was pissing me the hell off yesterday,” Tom said, biting angrily into his pizza, “he was telling me I was pronouncing some shit word wrong when I’ve been saying it the same way since Freshman year, and it wouldn’t have bothered me but he was being all snotty about it like he was better than me.”  
  
    “Who was it?” Mike asked.  
  
    “New kid, Sherlock Holmes?  I don’t know him, but he’s a total ass.”  
  
    The name thrown out so casually in conversation caught John off guard.  John’s friends, discussing Sherlock?  It made him uneasy.  Of course, yes, Sherlock could seem standoffish and a bit of an asshole, but he wasn’t always like that.  He just didn’t know how to talk normally to people, right?      
       
    “Hey, John knows him, don’t you, John?” James called to him.  His stomach turned over uncomfortably.    
  
    “Uh, yeah,” John replied, not turning around but pretending to still be reading movie titles.    
  
     “How do you know him?” he heard Greg’s voice ask.  
  
    “Chemistry class,” John called over his shoulder, trying to focus his eyes.  
  
    “Is he like, queer or something?” they all burst out laughing, except for John.  The question shocked him, coming out of nowhere.  He could almost see the sneer on Tom’s face, the alcohol in his cup making him rude, unmanageable.  
  
    “I mean, he definitely looks it, and the way he flourishes his hands when he talks,” John turned just in time to see Tom doing a limp-wrist impression to the laughter of his friends.  
     
    “You been keeping an eye on him or something?” Mike laughed, and Tom shoved him into the couch.  
  
    John felt sick.  
  
    “Oi, guys, he’s John’s friend, remember?” James came in.    
  
    “Oh right,” Tom fell quiet then followed with, “so John, is he gay?”  
  
    They all fell over laughing again.  
  
    “Shut it, will you?” John shouted, anger suddenly boiling his blood.  
    
    They looked up at him over their cups and their pizza, and from the humorous looks on their faces, he knew from years of knowing them that their taunting wasn’t done.  
  
    “Come now, John, it doesn’t matter to us if you’ve got a gay friend,” Mike said, his smile turning slowly into a sneer.  
  
    “He’s not gay,” John retorted, “ I mean...,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t think he is or anything, I dunno, why does it matter?”  
  
    “I just said it doesn’t,” Mike responded, laughing.    
  
    But John’s anger hadn’t been abated, judgement was still heavy in their voices.    
  
    “Fuck you guys,” he spat, fury tumbling about in him, and before he knew it, he was out of the room, down the stairs, and out Mike’s front door.  The anger had struck so suddenly.    
  
  
    He was still fuming on the walk home, but by the time he reached his house, he felt the embarrassment washing over him, mixing with his frustration.  They’d only been joking, he knew.  But it had touched a nerve.  Not that he thought Sherlock was gay, come to think of it, he had no idea what Sherlock...was.  He was always just...Sherlock.  Just Sherlock.  
  
     _“Is he, like, queer or something?”_ John heard the taunts in his head.  He clenched his fist as he hurried upstairs.    
  
     _Control it, control your anger._    
  
    He pushed open his bedroom door and closed it as quietly as he could behind him.  He’d heard his mother’s snores downstairs on the couch when he had come inside and was glad she wasn’t awake, glad he didn’t have to explain why he’d come home early.          
  
    He heard his friends’ laughter inside his head again.  
  
    Scared.  That was how he felt.  He laid down on the bed and buried his head into his pillow.  Why scared?  Scared and angry.    
  
    Overwhelmingly, in that moment, he missed Sherlock, he missed his friend, his strange, awkward, quiet, sincere friend.    
  
    He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and found Sherlock’s contact.  He picked up on the second ring.  
  
    “Hello?”  
  
    “Hey,” John said then cleared his throat, “what’re you up to?”  
  
    “John?  Are you alright?”  
  
    “Fine, fine, just...a bit tired,” already John felt the adrenalin in him begin to ebb away.  He curled in on himself, aware of the deep breaths raising his chest up and down, up and down.  
  
    “You sound angry.”  
  
    John sighed and nodded, even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t see him, “Yeah, I just...,” but he didn’t feel like continuing, didn’t want Sherlock to know why he’d flipped out at his friends.  
  
    Sherlock didn’t push.  
  
    “Want me to come over?”   
  
    John considered it for a moment, but declined, “No, it’s late, I should probably sleep this off.”  
  
    There was a pause and then, “Well if you feel like going for a midnight stroll just call.”  
  
    John smiled, “Will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone ever seen Persona? It's actually a damn good movie; I highly recommend it.


	4. Chapter 4

    “Can you get it in your mouth?”  
  
    Sherlock frowned, “What would I want to do that for?”  
  
    “Come on, it’s fun,” John nudged Sherlock, pulled a peanut from the bag and flicked it into the air.  He caught it expertly in his mouth.    
  
    “See?” he grinned widely.  Sherlock gave him a dubious look, “I’ll pass.”  He sat back against the bench and stuck his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.  John smiled to himself, shrugged, and continued throwing peanuts in the air.  They were out in the woods near the school under the dead, overhanging branches that kept dropping the last of their leaves on them.  John sat cross-legged on the bench, his backpack on the ground next to Sherlock’s outstretched legs.    
  
    “Know what you want to do yet?” he asked, giving Sherlock a sideways glance.  
   
    Sherlock threw his head back, “Ugh, I just don’t know!  Can’t we go break into an abandoned building or something?”  
  
    John snorted, “What would you want to do that for?”  
  
    “To abate my all-consuming boredom,” he groaned through gritted teeth.    
  
    John had become so used to Sherlock’s whining and groaning he barely noticed it as something unusual anymore.  He found it almost endearing, in a way.  He watched Sherlock for a moment, his head tilted back, his whole body extended, long and lanky.  He took up a lot of room for someone who requested that others not talk to him, or notice him, so much.      
  
    “We could still go to my house, you know, you’ve still got a level to beat in Super Mario Brothers.”  
  
    Sherlock’s face twisted into a scowl, “But I’ve already tried it ten times,” he turned over, facing John, curling up on himself as much as he could on the small, stiff bench.  His forehead pressed very lightly to John’s shoulder.  
   
    John, slightly surprised, searched around for something else to say.    
  
     _Don’t pay attention to it._    
  
    “What about the aquarium?  I understand children love it there,” he teased.  But at that Sherlock sat bolt upright and exclaimed, “John!  That’s it!”  
  
    “Oh, are you serious?  Do we really have to go to the aquarium?”  
  
    “No, not the aquarium!” Sherlock stood up, grabbing his backpack from the ground, “the zoo!”  
  
    “Wha–?” but Sherlock was already walking swiftly onto the path that lead out of the woods, “the zoo’s an hour from here,” he called after him, “and it’ll be closing soon.”  
   
    But Sherlock just turned at the edge of the clearing, apparently waiting.  With a great sigh, John picked up his backpack and followed Sherlock out of the woods.  
  
    With all their parents’ cars currently in use, they grabbed a bus going out of the city.    
  
    “You do realize that it’s currently,” he looked at his phone, “3:30, and the zoo closes at 5:00?”  
  
    “Oh, hush already,” Sherlock said, pulling his knees up onto his seat, “I don’t want to go when they’re _open_.”  He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
    About a dozen questions immediately popped into John’s mind, but he settled on just giving Sherlock his ‘Sherlock, explain’ look.    
  
    Sherlock exhaled loudly, “You want some adventure?  That’s why you’re still hanging around, right?”  
  
    “No, I’m still hanging around because I’m your friend,” John asserted.  Of course that was why he played into Sherlock’s ridiculous ideas: sneaking into an art history class at the local college, staying after school to snicker loudly in the back of the auditorium while the theater kids poorly practiced _Fiddler on the Roof_ , running off to try and swim in the river then realizing it was too cold and sulking until John promised they’d go swimming in Tom’s pool in the summer, and now the trip to the zoo after hours.  John had noticed, though, that he wasn’t bored with anything anymore.    
   
    “But you don’t mind the adventure, do you?”  
  
    John tried not to smirk, and nudged Sherlock with his elbow, “You’re a drama queen.”    
  
    A few minutes later, he caught Sherlock staring at him.  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “Nothing,” Sherlock muttered, fluffing out his curls with one of his hands.  John just shook his head and went back to staring out the window.    
  
    “So why the zoo?” John realized he’d never actually gotten an answer out of him.  
  
    “I like animals, but I hate it when they’re all those people and their kids around,” Sherlock grimaced.  John actually started laughing.  
  
    “Alright then.”  He was excited, he knew it, even if he wouldn’t let Sherlock see completely.  These past couple of months had been wildly emotional and frustrating due to his parents, but also thrilling.  He’d found someone he fit with, even while be so incredibly different.  The thought of knowing that somehow felt right, while also feeling disconnecting.  
  
    They snuck into the zoo just at closing time and hid behind the pig barn until the zoo keepers had left.  They slinked through the shadows and looked in on huge elk and tiny prairie dogs and John couldn’t stop staring at Sherlock’s smile.    
  
      
    -------  
  
  
    Friday afternoon, the day before Harry’s party.  John had been standing outside the school for nearly thirty minutes now and was starting to feel agitated.  He checked his phone again.  
  
    _Meet me outside school after last bell._    
  
    Yep, Sherlock had definitely texted him that.  It was the usual text and everything, meaning that he was feeling antsy for a fix, or “bored” as he put it, and would like John’s companionship for a few hours.  But the grounds were completely deserted.  
  
     _Sherlock?  Where are you?_   John texted again.  He’d tried calling, but had had no luck.    
  
    Finally, he felt his phone buzz in his hand.  
  
    “Thank God,” he muttered, tapping it so it lit up.    
  
     _Sorry, got a case._  
  
    John stared at the text.  He went to reply, then stopped again, re-reading it.  
  
     _He’s “got a case?”  What the hell does that mean?_  
  
    John texted back: _What?_  
  
    He waited, then finally received: _Police can’t find kidnapper.  I’m helping out._  
  
    John’s eyes went wide.  
  
     _How’re you doing that?_ John texted back.  
  
    But he only got back: _Will be by later._    
  
    And he knew he wouldn’t get anything more out of him for the time being.  
  
    “Oh Sherlock,” he murmured, shaking his head, and starting the walk home back through the woods, even without Sherlock with him.  
   
  
    Several hours on, well after John had finished his homework that was due the following day, he heard the front door open and close.  Immediately, he recognized the light footsteps on the stairs, skipping every other step.  
     
    “Did you catch the kidnapper?” John asked, as soon as Sherlock was in his room.  
  
    “Naturally,” Sherlock smirked, obviously pleased with himself, “sent in my anonymous tip an hour ago, I knew where he was because–.”  
  
    “Wait, are you serious?” John interrupted, looking surprised.  Sherlock, who’d been carrying his violin case and placing it neatly on the bed, stopped.  
   
    “What do you mean ‘am i serious?‘ of course I am, I just lead the police to a kidnapper and a kidnapped little girl,” Sherlock huffed, “thought you’d be impressed.”  
  
    “No, no I am,” John reassured him, sincerely filled with awe, “I just didn’t realize...you work with the police?”  
  
    “Not exactly _with_ them,” Sherlock’s voice had a twinge of annoyance edging it, “they’re mostly a bunch of morons, can’t say it would be easy working _with_ them, but I help out whenever I can.”  
  
    “Didn’t know I knew a Nancy Drew,” John chuckled.      
  
    Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unsure, “Are you making fun of me?”  
  
    “No, I’m not,” John laughed, his eyes twinkling, “come now, how’d you do it?”  
  
    Sherlock sighed, but immediately went into it, “in the police report, the mother of the kidnapped child mentioned the heavy smell of _pine_ emanating from the man with the mask who’d snatched her daughter when she was loading groceries into her car.”  Sherlock was still standing before John, his hands moving swiftly around as he spoke intensely.    
  
    “The police thought ‘well he’s got a new air freshener in his car’, like I said, a bunch of morons, but I was the only one who realized that the pine trees around here are scarce _unless_ you start heading into the northern part of the county where people live in those log cabins out in the forests and from what I understand from the Nester Lygaard case a few years ago, they’re popular vacation homes for the rich people in Northside, which is exactly where this little girl’s estranged father used to live.”  He stood proudly with his chin in the air for a moment, waiting for John’s response.    
  
    “Wow,” John just stared at him, taking in his words.  
  
    He seemed pleased by John’s reaction.  
  
    “How do you know for sure, though?” John asked.  Sherlock took the remote control that sat next to John on the bed and flipped through the channels until he landed on the local news.    
  
    The headline: _Lauren Harp, age 7, found._  
  
    “Do you do this kind of stuff a lot?” he as surprised he’d never heard Sherlock mention it before.  They’d known each other for a couple of months now; John was amazed at the new traits that surfaced about Sherlock every once in a while.  
  
    “Whenever I have the free time,” he sighed, opening his violin case and pulling out the instrument.  
  
    John stared at the television screen for a moment before another question dawned on him.  
  
    “So if you weren’t actually working with the police, how’d you get the police report?”  
  
    Sherlock smiled, “Ah, I was hoping you’d get there,” he flicked the bow up as he spoke, “the police server in this town is rubbish.”  John snorted with laughter.  
  
    “That sounds like fun.”  
  
    “Does it?” Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised.  
  
    “Absolutely, and hey, if you’re ever chasing down a criminal and need some backup, give me a call,” John leaned back against the wall that his bed was pressed up against.    
  
    “Well, seeing as I’m supposed to be keeping you out of fights I’m not sure how well that’d work,” he raised his eyebrows at John, “but if I need a new pair of eyes to look something over I’ll let you know.”  
  
    “What about a well intended fight?” John prodded.  
  
    “Nope,” Sherlock said, plucking a few strings.  
  
    “Come on,” he pushed, grinning.  
  
    “No, my duty has been explicitly stated.”  
  
    John’s grin widened.  
  
     _He thinks its his duty to keep me safe._  
  
 _Isn’t it?_ asked another voice in his head.  
  
    “Cheers.”  
  
    Sherlock began to play, drowning out the panicked voices from the television, filling the room with fast, upbeat notes, strung together by his expertly moving fingers.  John closed his eyes, and just listened.    
  
\-------  
  
  
    The silence in John’s house had grown deafening since his parents had left on their respective trips for the weekend.  
  
    Harry cured the horrible silence on Saturday evening by inviting about fifty people to drink in their house, although not nearly as many had showed up.  Harry’s sexuality was still a fault to too many people.  The house was still packed, though.  
     
    John had locked his bedroom door to be sure his bed didn’t become used for anything other than sleeping and he was downstairs in the doorway to the dining room trying to create as much personal space around him as possible.  The stereo was blasting something awful in the living room and the people nearest to him had dedicated the hallway and various doorways to grinding into each other in what appeared to be dancing.      
  
    He’d been keeping an eye out for Mary, but currently the house was just a moving mass of indistinguishable faces.  Half the people here didn’t even go to their school, and they just kept coming.  Harry was nowhere to be seen.  John was feeling extremely claustrophobic, wanting to just wander upstairs to his room and shut himself in there until it was all over.  This was Harry’s party, it was her mess, she’d agreed to that before the whole thing had started that afternoon.    
  
    “Don’t worry John it’s all taken care of,” she’d said, taking down the china plates out of the cabinet in the dining room and wrapping them in newspaper.    
  
    “Can you handle a big party?” John asked nervously.  
   
    Harry rolled her eyes, “John, it’s _under control._ ”  He hadn’t pushed anymore after that.  Since coming out to their parents, Harry had done what she’d wanted in more ways than just one.  
  
     _“I’m sick of hiding, sick of sneaking around, they know what sex I’m attracted to now but that doesn’t mean they know me,”_ she had told John as they sat in her room while their parents discussed her downstairs.  Two years later they’d come to terms with it, but only at her insistence to never be quiet about it again.  She’d been fourteen and, to John, just a little girl.  But in those years, Harry had made him see, through her sneaking out and getting caught, her stubborn fights with their parents for her girlfriends to be allowed to spend the night, her violence toward anyone who tried to rough her up, that she was real and whole and in no need of his guidance.    
   
  
    John had, thankfully, made up with his group of friends the Monday after the incident at Mike’s house.  He’d apologized, saying how stressed he’d been at home, and they’d all moved on.  It had been simple, as John knew it should be after so many years of friendship.  But he still felt a wave of embarrassment every time he thought of that night.  
  
   
    People had started rolling in almost two hours before hand, around 7:00, Tom and James had arrived shortly after 8:00 but had been swept up by some of Harry’s friends, Mike and Tom came, already drunk, just after Tom and James, but there was still no sign of Mary.  John was beginning to feel put off.    
  
    He pulled his phone out of his pocked and tapped the screen.    
  
     _My sister’s throwing a party and I’m bored as hell._   _What are you doing?_  
  
    Not even a minute later, his phone buzzed.  
  
     _Attempting to determine approximately how far away from one another the trees are in my backyard in case I ever needed to jump between them_  
  
    John snorted, then his phone buzzed again.  
  
     _while I wait for popcorn to cook in the microwave_  
  
    John laughed out loud and shook his head, texting back: Sounds exciting.  
  
    Sherlock responded with: _Want to join me?  There may be a board game in it for you._    
  
    John only paused for a second before answering: _I’ll be over soon, but I don’t feel like being competitive today, let’s just watch a movie.  What’s your address?_  
  
    His heart was pounding faster than usual by the time Sherlock texted back.    
   
    When John looked up again, though, Mary was walking in through the front door, her hair pinned back from her shining face, pink from the cold outside.  John heard a shout and Harry’s friend Janine ran up to Mary and hugged her enthusiastically.  Mary smiled back as they pulled apart, but her eyes ran over the crowd, finally settling on John.  Her grin widened as she made her way over.  John’s heart pounded frantically in his chest as she approached.  
  
    “Hi,” she said, a bit breathlessly.  
  
    “Hi,” he replied, his phone weighing heavily in his hand.  He suddenly didn’t want to leave so badly.  
  
    “So how’s the party been?” she asked, having to raise her voice as someone cranked the stereo in the adjacent room.  
  
    He shrugged, “not bad, I suppose.”  He glanced around.  No one jumping on furniture, no sign of smoke, only teenagers with plastic cups in their hands, hanging on each other or dancing in large masses.  There was a couple making out by the door, but it all seemed rather tame compared to John’s experiences with parties before, especially ones taking place at the nearby college.  
  
    Then, “I’m glad you came,” he admitted, trying not to shy away at her direct eye contact.  Her eyes were dark, but they twinkled from the overhead lights.     
     
    “Me too,” she nodded, “you looked bored when I came in.”  
  
    They laughed and he shrugged.  He thought he should be going, he’d promised Sherlock, but he’d blown off Mary once already.  Sherlock would understand, right?  
  
    John’s heart dropped at that thought.  
   
    “Do you want a drink?” he offered.  
  
    “No thanks.”  He was almost glad of her answer, glad he wasn’t the only teenager who didn’t drink around here.    
  
    “Do you usually drink?” she asked him.  
  
    He shook his head, “No, I’m not really a fan.”  He wasn’t eager to get into his reasons tonight.  
  
    “Ah,” she nodded, looking around at the dining room walls.    
  
    They fell into an awkward silence, neither seeming to know what kind of conversation to start from there.  
  
    “Uh...,” John began, “Did you hear about the school’s soccer team?  Won last week’s match.”    
  
     _School?_   They were already on the topic of school?  That was almost as bad as discussing the weather.  
  
    “No, I hadn’t heard,” she said, seeming mildly interested.  
  
    “Yeah, James and Mike were telling me,” he ran a hand through his hair again.  Silence again fell between them.  John became extremely aware of the noise of the chatter around him.  
  
    “Do you want to hang out upstairs?  It’s really crowded down here,” she said loudly, smiled innocently, but John’s gut immediately twisted uncomfortably.    
  
    “Sorry, uh, it’s locked right now, you know didn’t want anyone sneaking in there, maybe another...time?” he didn’t know why he was saying it other than the overwhelming feeling of dread when she’d asked.  He felt separate.  There was the part of him standing beside him, rolling his eyes, the one who would remember his friends’ voices in his head, encouraging him to _make a move_.  They’d never let him live it down if he had a chance to go up to his bedroom with a girl, and Mary no doubt.    
  
    But then there was the part of him standing there, making the decision to speak.  The part of him that wanted to leave.  The displacement taking place in his head was unnerving, to say the least.  
  
    She looked at him with her eyebrows raised and her lips in the shape of an ‘o’.  
   
    “I’m sorry, I uh–,” just at that moment his phone buzzed, and he looked down at it to see Sherlock’s text: _Coming?_  
  
    “I promised a friend I’d meet up with him tonight,” he put his phone away and pushed himself away from the doorframe, “It was nice talking with you, we should er–do that more often,” he was nearly having to shout over the stereo.    
  
    Her face fell, “Oh, okay then.”  She looked down at the floor and John made a rash decision, “Do you want to go out with me sometime?”  
  
    Her face lit back up immediately, and she answered quickly, “Sure.”  
  
    “Great,” he breathed.  He could almost feel Greg patting him on the back.  _Good call, mate._  
  
    But as he said goodbye and grabbed his coat by the front door, he wondered why he felt so dismal.    
  
          
    John knew the streets that would get him to Sherlock’s house, and made it there in only about ten minutes.  The house was a large, brick structure with a turret out front spiraling up to the second floor.  There was an enormous tree sitting in the yard and lines of dirt stretching up the path to the front door.  The flowers in the dirt patches were dead, but the last of the tree’s leaves had yet to fall off.  
   
     _Must look nice in the spring_ , he thought to himself.  
  
    John went up to the black front door and knocked.  
   
    It immediately opened.  Sherlock stood there in baggy, black pajama pants and a white T-shirt.    
  
    “John,” Sherlock nodded as a greeting.    
  
    “Are you in your pajamas?”  John laughed.    
  
    Sherlock looked down as John stepped over the threshold, “Of course, it’s nine thirty at night, and I wasn’t planning on going out again, why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
    John just shook his head.  
  
    “Your house is...beautiful,” he told him, glancing around at the details in the archway between the hall and the living room and the intricate wooden bannister along the stairwell.  
   
    “Well, thank you, but it’s not actually my house, it’s my parents’, although probably not for another fifteen years or so,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully.  John raised an eyebrow at him.  Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Thank you.”  John shook his head, still somewhat in disbelief.  
  
    “Have you lived here long?”  
  
    “Since I was a kid,” he said, nodding.  John knew he’d gone to private school since elementary school and had transferred to John’s school only this year, for what reason, John wasn’t sure.       
   
    The house was completely silent other than their voices in the foyer.  His ears still rang from the noise that had taken over his house for the evening.  
   
    “Are your parents home?” John asked, shrugging off his jacket.  Sherlock took it from him and hung it on a hook along the entrance hallway wall.  
   
    “Nope, just me, parents are out for the evening,” he answered, fidgeting with the pocket of his pants.    
   
    “Shall we go upstairs, then?” he offered.  
  
    “Lead the way.”  
  
    They reached the second floor and Sherlock took him down a long hallway past several closed doors until they reached the last one.  
  
    Sherlock pushed it open and they stepped into a small, circular bedroom.  Sherlock’s bed stretched out into the middle of the room between the two windows on the far wall.  His walls were a deep purple, covered by none of the usual band posters that John was accustomed to seeing whenever he entered a friend’s room.  The curtains around the windows hung down to the floor, dark red and closed at the moment.  And there were stack of books _everywhere_.  All over the floor, in front of the closet door, on top of his desk that was crammed into a corner, and even on top of the TV sitting on the short bookcase across from the bed.  There were three shelves of records on the wall above a record player box.  John eyed them, but was unable to make out any of the band names.  A violin case sat against one of the dusty nightstands that was littered with little ceramic figurines of animals and what appeared to be tiny skulls.    
  
    “I convinced my parents to let me have the turret room,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased, “Mycroft pretended he didn’t care but I know he does.”  John snorted.  
  
    “Do you and your parents get on well?” John realized he’d never asked about his parents before.  Sherlock complained about Mycroft when he’d pop in unexpectantly for visits from university, but his parents had never come up.  It was always John’s problematic parents that were the talk of their conversations.    
  
    Sherlock thought for a moment, “Yyyyes, I suppose so, Dad and I get on well, Mom tries her best, but, well, she doesn’t completely understand, this,” he waved an arm dismissively at his room.      
  
    A half eaten bowl of popcorn sat on his bedside table beside a small tiffany lamp that was turned on.  Sherlock wandered over to the bed and crawled up onto it, sitting cross legged on the left side, and pushing some papers aside.  
  
    “What do you want to watch?” he asked, as John made his way over, slipped off his shoes and sat precariously on the edge of the bed.  Sherlock grabbed the remote control out of the covers and turned on the TV.  
  
    John just looked around.  So this was Sherlock’s room, Sherlock’s house.  Much more normal then he would’ve expected, if he was being completely honest, although as he looked closer at the desk he thought he saw a jar with _something_ floating in it.  He looked away, back at Sherlock.  Sherlock was watching him.    
           
     John hoisted himself further onto the bed and mimicked Sherlock’s cross-legged position.  Their knees gently brushed.  An electric shock seemed to jolt through his leg at their touch.  Again, the confusion of their relationship rose in John’s head.  
  
    “Oh, uh, I don’t mind what we watch, anything,” he told Sherlock, remembering his question from several moments before.  
  
    Sherlock started flipping through the pay-per-view movies on the television until he landed on one.  
  
    “Ever seen this?”  
  
    John squinted at the title.  It was in Swedish.  He shook his head.  
  
    “It has subtitles, don’t worry,” Sherlock smirked.  They sat back against the pillows as the movie started up.  
  
    John sat confused for most of the way through the film.  He didn’t understand if half of what they’d seen had actually happened in the story or if it was all in one, or both, of the characters’ heads.  They came to a scene of the two main women running along a beach, one yelling at the other.  Then tears were cascading down both of their faces.  
  
    “Sherlock, what’s–,” John had turned to ask Sherlock what was going on, but as he’d glanced over, he saw Sherlock’s profile, his bluish eyes shining in the glow from the television, his jaw tightly set as tears fell down his cheek.  
  
    “Sherlock,” John put a hand on his shoulder and he immediately tensed.    
  
    “I–I don’t...,” Sherlock muttered, turning to face John.     
  
    The image of fragility sat there beside John.  He’d never seen Sherlock express such an extreme emotion before; anything they’d ever watched or taken part in had been light hearted until this point.  Usually Sherlock was poised, a chuckle here or there, the occasional scowl of disapproval.  But here he sat, tears falling off of his chin, his lips quivering.  The innocence John had never seen before, the innocence that was apparently lost among the track marks on Sherlock’s arms, the standoffishness, the apparent lack of the need for many social interactions.       
   
    He leaned toward Sherlock’s furrowed, tear streaked face, and his mind went completely blank.  The part of his brain that knew reason and social expectations cut off entirely.  
  
    John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.  
   
    It was quick.  So quick in fact, that John wasn’t sure he’d actually done it, except that his lips had felt so soft for just a moment, soft and full.  And then there was the look of utter surprise on Sherlock’s face as John drew away.  
  
    Then, everything felt like it was falling down around him, their friendship, crumpled up as trash and tossed out of play.  
  
      “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorry, I didn’t, I, um, just, I didn’t mean to–fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry, you were just vulnerable, I didn’t mean to take advantage, just wanted to, maybe make you feel better, I mean–,” John’s heart raced out of control, he kept clenching and unclenching his hands.  He felt his throat closing up, his breathing quickening.  He chanced a glance at Sherlock’s face.  His eyes were still wide, his lips still parted.    
  
   _Oh my god, what have I done?_  
  
 _But it felt good._  
  
    He wanted to scream at himself to shut up, just shut it.  
  
     _It felt good to kiss him._  
  
 _This is what you wanted, all along.  A familiar face._  
      
    “Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–,” but before John could get up, Sherlock had turned so that he was fully facing him.  Sherlock’s face came within inches of his own.  John froze, his mouth tried to create words, but again, nothing came out.  Tongue-tied.  Sherlock’s scent reached him in their close proximity, smelling light and real and familiar.  His eyes flicked down to fix on Sherlock’s lips.  
  
     _Did he want it, too?_       
  
    When Sherlock closed the distance, John didn’t pull back.  He didn’t think he could’ve even if he’d wanted to.  All thoughts, all wonders, all concern he had were taken over by his want, his want for this.  Everything else could wait.    
  
    He let out a long sigh through his nose that felt like he’d been holding it in since they’d met.  They kissed, awkwardly at first, their mouths closed with their lips pressed together, their heads slightly tilted.  Sherlock’s lips were smooth against John’s chapped ones.  They pulled back once, then went in again.  John kept his eyes closed, acutely aware of every movement Sherlock made, his slow breathing, his hand on John’s on top of the blankets, his fingers shaking ever so slightly.  
  
    Sherlock licked his bottom lip, making it wet.     
      
       _Oh god._  
  
    They moved closer on the bed to one another, John’s hand finding the crook of Sherlock’s jaw, drawing him near.  The need to be close was virtually palpable in the air.    
  
    The movie played on as they slowly kissed, wrapped in a sealed envelope of comfort.  
   
    It wasn’t like kissing a girl, to John, because it wasn’t like kissing anyone.  It was new, it was exciting, but all the more, it felt right.    
  
    Sherlock didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, he kept moving them from the bed to hovering on either side of John’s arms.  John had the urge to take Sherlock’s hands and place them where he most wanted them.  A shiver ran through him at that thought.         
  
    They pulled apart.    
  
    They were both breathing heavily as if they’d just run a mile.  Sherlock’s face broke into a shy smile, the tears on his cheeks having been wiped off.  But then his expression fell, his eyes sweeping over John’s face.  
  
    “I have to go,” John said, his voice flat.  He hurriedly slid down off the bed and slipped his shoes back on.    
   
    “Sorry, I...,” but he didn’t finish, didn’t look back at Sherlock.  His brain was back on, and at full blast.  
  
     _What the hell was that?  What are you doing?  YOU JUST KISSED SHERLOCK, YOU JUST KISSED YOUR FRIEND, YOU JUST KISSED A GUY, THAT'S RIGHT, A GUY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?_  
   
    John didn’t hear Sherlock call after him, didn’t expect it.  He was out the front door, his head blazing.    
  
    “Fuck,” he exclaimed into the quiet, night street when he’d run enough blocks and put enough distance between himself and Sherlock.  He ducked into an alley, his breath coming in great gasps as he leaned back against the brick.  He was suddenly reminded of his first meeting with Sherlock.  He pressed the heel of his hands over his eyes, pushing the images away.      
  
    “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice breaking.


	5. Chapter 5

   John liked girls.  He was part of the norm in his town.  Harry might be queer, loads of others might be as well, but he wasn’t.  He’d grown up knowing that boys fell for girls, boys rescued girls, boys won girls at the end of stories.  
  
    Yes, that was him.    
  
  
      It had been almost two weeks since Harry’s party.  And, as his brain constantly reminded him, two weeks since he’d asked out Mary, and two weeks since he’d kissed Sherlock.  He hadn’t spoken to Sherlock since.  
  
    He’d been spending every moment in school that wasn’t spent in class avoiding him.  He didn’t go outside during breaks and in the classes he couldn’t afford to miss, he just didn’t look over in Sherlock’s direction, didn’t even acknowledge that side of the room.  
  
    Then he was worrying, all the time.  Worried about Sherlock’s track marks.  Were there more now?  Could he have given in without John there to stop him?      
  
    And then going home made things all the worse.  His parents had finally agreed, in so many words, to just not talk to each other about anything.  The silence wasn’t as bad as the shouting, but it was leagues more unnerving.  And for some reason, it angered him to hear their silence, their resignation to not do _anything_.  He thought he might explode.         
  
    He felt constant pain in every joint and muscle and bone in his body.  He needed a release, he needed to _get out_.    
  
  
    It was break and most of the school was in the courtyard milling around and talking until the bell.  John was standing in the hallway outside of his next class, leaning against the wall, hoping his teacher would get there early and unlock the door so he could sit down.  He hadn’t slept well all week.  Looking in the mirror was like looking at a corpse’s face, all hollowed out and pale.  
  
    He heard footsteps coming down the hall and opened his eyes a slit to see who it was.  He opened his eyes all the way.     
     
    “What the fuck are you looking at?” he snapped at a tall, lean guy with short, bristly blonde hair who was walking by with a couple of other people.  The guy’s brow furrowed and he stopped, puffing out his chest.  John hadn’t realized who it was, he was so tired, faces had become blurs.  But his head finally cleared enough for him to realize it was one of Andrew Wilo’s gang members, Jamie Lowe.     
  
    “The fuck did you say to me?” he took a few steps forward until he was inches from John’s face.  John didn’t have the self preservation or the self control right then to do anything other than shove him back and spit, “I said ‘what the fuck are you lookin’ at?’”  He dropped his backpack to the floor, glaring with fury in his eyes at Jamie, who wasn’t backing down.  More than his anger, he realized, was excitement in him.  
  
    He took another step forward and shoved him back again.  
  
    “What’re you gonna do about it?” he yelled, no idea what he was responding to, only trying to provoke.  There were voices in his mind telling him what to do, what not to do, but they were all muffled, obscured, elsewhere from right here.  
  
    “The fuck are you talking about, Watson?” Fred Harrison, one of Jamie’s friends, said, stepping up and shoving John’s shoulder back.  John looked over, raised his fist, and with all his might rammed it straight into Fred’s nose, knocking him backwards.  Then Jamie and another guy were on him, kicking his legs out from under him, punching his gut, and shoving him to the ground.  John fought back, wriggling as Jamie held him down, trying to strike them with his throbbing fist, but Jamie punched out at him over and over and over again, hitting his cheek, his neck, and finally his arms once John put them up over his face for protection.       
    
    He heard yells as the blows continued to come.  With his fury not yet abated, his adrenalin pumping with each furious beat of his racing heart, he shot his arms out, grasping Jamie’s wrists and jerking them backwards.  Jamie cried out, slumped back, and John made his move.  With all his strength in his arms, he twisted Jamie over,  kicking out with his legs, and was on him.  His knuckles came down once, twice, on Jamie’s horrified face and he raised his arm for a third time and was tackled off of him, slammed into the ground.    
  
    “Cut it out!” he heard a man shout, a teacher’s voice, and was dragged up by his underarms.  There were students standing around, some looking horrified, others excited, at the scene.  He tasted blood in his mouth and spat onto the floor.  He strained against the teacher holding him, but they just tightened their grip.  Jamie was being lifted up by several other teachers, holding his face, tears running down his cheeks.  Fred was standing, holding his nose which dribbled blood.  When he saw John standing in front of him his face contorted into a look of fury.  He drew back a fist, John opened his mouth, and everything went black.    
       
      
 _Should’ve called for Sherlock._   It was his brain talking again, he knew.   
                 
  
     _What?_  
  
  
     _You knew you were feeling that way, like you needed to get in a fight.  You should’ve called him._  
  
  
     _Couldn’t._  
  
  
 _Why not?_  
  
  
 _Because...because..._  
  
  
    John slowly opened his eyes, then immediately squeezed them shut again when he was met by fluorescent lights overhead.  
  
    “Fuck,” he heard himself mutter.  
  
    “I don’t appreciate that kind of language, young man.”  
   
    John opened his eyes just a slit at the sound of a familiar voice, to see a bleary head shaking at him.  
  
    “Harry?”  
  
    “Thanks for getting me out of Astronomy,” she said.  He opened his eyes a little wider and noticed the sea foam green curtain beside him.  
  
    “God, I feel terrible,” he said.    
  
    “Well you should, gave us quite a fright,” she said cheerfully.  
  
    He grimaced at her and tried to sit up but immediately stopped as pain shot through his abdomen.   
     
    “What’s wrong with me?” he breathed, sliding back down.    
  
    “A question we’re all asking, I think.”  Her face grew slightly more serious when he frowned at her.  
  
    “Nothing serious, they’re keeping an eye out for swelling on your head, making sure you don’t have a concussion or anything.”  
  
    “Are Mom and Dad here?”   
  
    “On their way,” she said, “I’m just here to keep you company until then, so I’m not going to lecture you because you’re going to get enough of that soon.”  
  
    John groaned, gritting his teeth.  Everything hurt, but a different kind of hurt than he’d been feeling all day.  This was much more physical, but somehow not as real.   
  
          “Sherlock was here a few minutes ago,” Harry said, lowering her voice, “seemed real cut up about you being hurt and all...”  
  
    John made an indistinct noise in his throat and looked away, focusing on the bandages wrapped around his hand while his heartbeat accelerated.   
    
    “Are you two–,” but Harry was cut off when they heard a door squeal on its hinges and a familiar voice coming through.  
  
    “I’m looking for John Watson,” their father said, presumably to the school nurse at her desk.  
  
    “See you,” she whispered and got up.  
  
    As Harry and their father exchanged hellos, John could hear the strain in his voice.  A moment later, his face appeared around the curtains.  And it wasn’t the tired face that had picked him up from school on the last two occasions of his fighting, it was a face of pure anger.  
  
    “John,” he started through gritted teeth, closing his eyes and looking away momentarily.  He grabbed the chair Harry had been sitting in and turned it so it was completely facing toward John.  He sat.    
  
    “They’re suspending you for a week this time, and after school detentions the follow week, and if you don’t cut it out they will expel you,” he said, fists clenched under his chin, “I can’t keep doing this John,” he bent his head, “I can’t deal with you being like this.”    
  
    John’s chest felt empty as his father’s voice came over him in a wave.  He felt disheveled, drained, and completely disgusted in himself.    
  
    “I’m sorry,” was all he could say, in a small whisper.  He was a child again, being scolded.  He was weak and destructible.    
     
     “I’m sorry,” he repeated.  
  
    “Sorry isn’t good enough, John,” his father said, lifting his head, a mixed look of anger and defeat etched into his lined face.  
  
    “Things aren’t good,” he said softly, “your mom–,” he bend his head again, running his hands through his short, graying hair.  
  
    “Dad,” John began, his voice low, barely above a whisper, “what’s going on?”  
  
    It was the question he’d needed to ask since August of summer break when his parents had sat him and Harry down in the family room and told them that they were getting a divorce.  
  
    His father met his gaze, but he didn’t seem surprised by the question.  
  
    “Your mother and I have agreed to stay living in the house together for, for the time being,” he said in a flat voice.  
  
    “But what does that even mean?  ‘The time being’?” John wondered aloud.  This purgatory, this floating inbetween that they existed in had to end.  It was unbearable.  
       
    “I’ve been so frustrated, I don’t ever want to come home,” he told his father, speaking quickly, afraid his courage would die out any second, “I want you two to work it out, I really do, but I also know that it may not even be salvageable, I don’t know, but if it isn’t redeemable, then it needs to end, it’s killing us.”  His voice cracked on the last word and he felt ashamed of himself.  He was still a child.  Always confused, always in the middle of what he wanted and what he thought he couldn’t have.  
  
    His relationship with his father had never been poor.  He’d been there with encouragements in John’s life, words of advice when needed, but with a strange, translucent blockage.  His father was the one in their family who kept emotions distant, as he showed over and over again, that could’ve very well been the reason for the discord between him and John’s mom.  Yet it was something he and John shared.  It was a commonality that, for obvious reasons, couldn’t be a source of comfort or bond between them, and that had always felt wrong.    
      
    But then, John’s father reached forward and drew him into a close hug.  Surprised, John lifted his arms, although they felt like they were being weighed down with lead, and embraced him back.  
  
    “I know,” his father whispered.    
  
     _I know._  
  
  
    They left the nurse’s office once John could sit up without feeling nauseous and immediately went to the hospital.  He had some minor head swelling and was told to get a lot of rest.    
  
    He and Harry sat in his room with Monopoly spread out on the bed between them.   
  
    “God, I’m so bored,” he groaned, leaning back against his pillows.  
  
    “Gotta rest,” she said loudly, snapping her fingers at him.   
   
    He muttered darkly under his breath and took the dice she offered him, rolling them onto the board.  They played through a few turns, and a silence dragged on.   
    
     _Harry, when did you know you weren’t straight?_  
  
    He played those words over and over again in his head as they sat there.  He’d been fighting with himself since they’d started playing.  
    
     _Say it,_ his brain pushed.  
  
   _Just. Ask._  
  
    He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling the words rise in his throat, his adrenalin increasing and then...he pushed them back down, away.  He was afraid.  Mostly afraid of where the conversation would lead, what Harry would assume if he asked.  But he was also afraid of uttering such suggestive words aloud.  They would become real.  And he was so tired...  
  
    Suddenly, his phone rang beside him on the bed.  He scrambled to untangle it from the sheets, his heart pounding.  He tapped the screen without looking at the name and said, “Hello?”  
  
    “Hey John,” it was Tom.  He felt his shoulders slump in disappointment.  What had he expected?  Sherlock to call, to check up on him?   
     
    “Hey, what’s going on?”  
  
    “Oh nothing too big, how’re you feeling?”  
  
    “I’m okay, minor swelling, black eye, busted lip, but I’ll live.”  
  
    “Good to hear,” Tom chuckled, “But hey, I was wondering if you’re still coming to my party tomorrow night, you know, just gonna have everyone meet up at my place, play some pool, go swimming in the pool...,”  
  
    “It’s almost December,” John laughed.  
  
    “Yeah but my parents haven’t put the cover on yet, and hey, it’ll be fun.”  
  
    “Well I’m not swimming, but I’ll definitely come if my parents let me, that fight...”  
  
    “Yeah, I gottcha,” he said, understanding, “well, if you get a chance to sneak out, you know where to find us.”  
  
    “Yeah, thanks, I’ll definitely try.”  
  
    “Alright, mate, see you in school.”  
  
    “See you.”  
  
    They hung up.  
  
    “Who were you expecting that to be?” Harry wasn’t looking at him when she asked, her eyes were on the board as she moved her piece around, and he was grateful because he knew his cheeks were pink, “seemed mighty excited.”  
  
    “No one, just, yeah, no one,” he kept his eyes fixed on the dice as he rolled for his turn, “it was Tom.”  
  
    “Hm,” she didn’t push.  He was glad he hadn’t asked her.   
  
  
\-------  
  
  
    John and about ten other people standing around him groaned in awe and frustration when the air hockey puck skimmed into his goal.    
  
    “Well shit, someone take over,” he grimaced, the corners of his mouth turning up in a little smile.  Jack Maller took his place across from Greg at the air hockey table and he stepped back into the crowd.    
  
    They were about half an hour into Tom’s party and John was feeling pretty cheerful, an emotion he hadn’t been familiar with for much too long, he felt.  
  
    “You look right messed up, you know that?” Tom said, coming up to him where he stood next to the couch and throwing an arm around his shoulders.  
  
    John winced, “Yeah, I know.”  He’d taken the bandages off his knuckles but he wished he could bandage up his split lip and black eye.  
  
    “Glad you could make it, had to sneak out?”  
  
    John shook his head, “Nah, my Dad and I had a talk and he said something along the lines of socializing would be good for me,” he grinned.  
  
    “Ah parents,” Tom sighed, “Glad mine’s upstairs not giving a damn what I do.”  He kissed his fingers and raised them to the ceiling.     
   
    “But taking on three guys at once, I’m impressed,” he said, sipping from a cup in his hand.    
  
    “Glad I impressed someone,” John grinned, “Although I was the one they almost had to take away in a body bag.”  They both laughed, although John felt a twinge of regret in his stomach.    
  
    “Oh hey, by the way, I invited that friend of yours, Sherlock,” said Tom, his voice sounding like he was trying to be carefree, “He actually seems pretty cool you know we should all hang out sometime.”  To make up for my crack about him before.  John knew that was why he’d done it.  
  
    “Oh, uh, thanks, cool,” John said, trying to smile but only being able to feel his face stretching uncomfortably, his chest tightening.  I need to leave.  He didn’t think he’d ever suddenly wanted to be somewhere else so badly.  I can’t see him.     
    
    Tom stood by him a while longer, watching the air hockey game and nodding at a few people who’d just joined the fray, forcing John to remain rooted to the spot.  He kept running through excuses to leave in his head and had finally settled on saying he had to go to the restroom when Mary appeared at his side.  
  
    “Hi,” she smiled dazzlingly.  
  
    “Oi, Greg, give me a turn, will ya?” Tom shouted, setting his drink down on the coffee table and pushing his way to the other side of the room.   
  
    Mary moved a bit closer as several people nudged past to sit on the couch.    
  
    “You look awful,” she commented, but her smile was still in place.  
    
    He chuckled lightly, but couldn’t find the heart to put any real effort into it.  
  
    “So when’s that date of ours?” she asked, getting right to the point.  
  
    “Oh, well,” he looked down, shuffling his feet.  Sherlock was in his head.  He always was now, which was why John couldn’t see him, which was why he needed to go before they came face to face.  
  
     _No, you like Mary, remember?  Mary, who’s right here.  Look at her._   
   
    When he looked up again, Mary had her head titled, looking curiously at him.  
  
    “John,” she said, rather defiantly, straightening her shoulders and looking him straight in the face, “if you want me, then do something about it,” she pressed herself against his chest and angled her chin up, her eyes bright.  He knew what he had to do.  
  
    He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved his head toward her.  She responded immediately, her lips curling in a smile.  They kissed, in the corner of Tom’s party, because it was right, because this was what John should be doing, he knew.  
    
    Mary wrapped a hand around the back of his neck to draw him closer.  She opened her mouth to let him in, and he obliged.  But when her tongue ran over his bottom lip all he could imagine was his hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls, Sherlock’s long, slender body pressing him up against a wall.  
    
     _Fuck._  
  
    He pulled his head back, breaking the kiss, and taking half a step away.  He didn’t want to see her look of disappointment, his head spun with wild excuses, he looked anywhere but at her.  Yet as he glanced nervously around over the top of her head, his eyes came to rest of the last person he’d wanted to see that kiss.  
  
    Sherlock stood in the doorway to the family room, his eyes glued to John.  
    
     _This is normal, you’re okay, don’t..._  
  
    But John was pushing Mary aside.  
  
    “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he muttered to her.  He heard her protests, but with a swish of his coat, Sherlock had disappeared.  
  
    John pushed through the crowd of people.  He craned his neck, his eyes on the doorway.  He apologized as he slid in between bodies until he was finally out the front door.  He hurried down the porch steps, looking wildly around.  A couple was standing, smoking, on the lawn.  
  
    “Did you guys see a guy, tall, pale, uh long coat come out here?”  
  
    The girl nodded and pointed down the street to the right.  
  
    “Thanks,” he huffed.  He scanned the street for any sign of movement, but there was none, apart from a car driving past.   
             
     _Please don’t do anything, Sherlock,_ he thought over and over and over again in his head.  He’d seen Sherlock’s fragility.  Fear engulfed him, and he started to run.  
  
     _Please don’t.  I miss you, I miss you now._   John felt the fear tearing out his insides.    
  
  
    He didn’t have to go far.  He looked through each alleyway that he passed and finally saw a figure moving through the third one he looked down.  He hurried after him.  Sherlock didn’t turn even though John knew he could hear the gravel under his feet.  
    
    “Sherlock, wait!” John shouted, running forward.  Sherlock stopped, but he still didn’t turn around.  John halted, breathing hard.  
  
    They stood in the middle of a dirt and gravel parking lot, a sign stuck in the middle telling them that it was only for people who lived in the area.  The apartments on both sides pressed in on them, but somehow left them exposed out in the moonlight.  
         
    Now that John had him, safe and standing in front of him, he had no idea what to say.    
  
    “Sherlock...,” he just said his name.    
  
    “We made no promises to each other,” Sherlock said, rather loudly, angrily, over his shoulder, “I know that.”  
    
    “Sherlock...,”  
  
    “No, John,” Sherlock turned swiftly and John almost had to look away.  That pained expression on his face, his jaw clenched, his eyes shining, “You’re my only friend, you know that?  Of course you do.  You’ve seen how no one can stand me.  I don’t pretend to know anything about emotions or relationships, but from the moment you tried to help me, you were suddenly different.”  
  
    John swallowed hard, not sure that he wanted to hear this.  Afraid of what it might do to him, afraid of his own actions.   
    
    “I don’t expect some fairytale romance from you,” he gestured wildly, “I just ask that you don’t fuck with me,” his voice became fierce for those last words.  
  
    It was difficult, looking him in the eye with him standing right there.  He was real, he was feeling, he was hurting.  John had to look away, because he saw himself reflected in those emotions.    
  
    “I–I–,” the right words wouldn’t form, “I’m not–,” gay.  He didn’t want to say it, because he knew it wasn’t completely true.  He knew from the way his stomach turned over when he looked at Sherlock and thought about him, especially the way he thought about him under John’s bed covers, and in his dreams, there was no other explanation other than _attraction.  He knew.  God, he knew._   And he was petrified.  
  
    Sherlock’s face was a mixture of anger and hurt, watching John struggle, possibly knowing that John’s struggle would either end or inflate his pain.    
  
     _Go on_ , said a voice in his head.  But he wasn’t sure which voice it was, wasn’t sure what it was egging him on to do.  
  
     _Give in._   John knew how to give into things that were bad for him.  He knew how to say “fuck it” to logic, knew how to push past borders that were meant to keep him safe and healthy and happy.  But what was this?  Was this, whatever these feelings were, actually bad for him?  
  
    He wanted it.  He wanted Sherlock, but not like he wanted the high from a fight.  
    
  
    Out of nowhere, raucous laughter met their ears, breaking the moment.  John peered over his shoulder and saw several presumably drunken classmates wandering past the alley’s entrance.  
  
    When he turned back, Sherlock was gone.    
  
      
    John did not return to the party, not wanting to face Mary, nor feeling very much in the mood to be around a lot of people.  His home felt like a disease, but there was no where else to go.  
  
    This was the worst he’d felt in a very long time.  
    
    He’d lost his comfort, and his friend.    
  
    The need for someone to talk to was overwhelming, yet he wanted nothing more than to be utterly alone.  Isolation was welcoming.  Sleep was calling.  
  
    He entered the house to the sound of muffled cartoons coming from the living room.    
  
     _Mom must still be up._   He remembered her comforting arm around his shoulders, and being a child again felt completely gratifying.  He trudged down the hall, opening his mouth to speak, but was cut short when he saw Harry lying on the couch alone.  
  
    “Oh, hi,” she said gruffly, glancing up from the TV.  She had a blanket over her and a mug between her hands.  
  
    “You alright?” he stepped up to the couch, eyeing her disheveled hair and pallid face.  She just grunted and shrugged, taking a sip from her mug.  
  
    “Where’s mom?” he asked.  
    
     _I think I need her._    
  
    Harry shrugged, “Maybe upstairs, I dunno.”  She coughed into her arm and made a disgusted face.  
  
    “Are you sick?” he sat at her feet.  
  
    She nodded, then winced and rubbed her head.  
  
    “But I’ve still got my Friday night going,” she tilted the mug back and forth, the contents swishing around.  John scrunched up his nose at the sickly sweet smell of vodka that wafted his way.     
  
    “Ugh, put that down,” he took the mug from her hands, “you need orange juice or tea or something.”  She groaned and slid further down onto the pillow behind her head as he got up and went into the kitchen.      
  
    “Aren’t you supposed to be at a party or something?” she asked, sounding annoyed as she punched her pillow to fluff it up.    
  
    “Yeah,” was all he said, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with orange juice from the fridge.  He brought it back to her.    
      
   _Maybe I should’ve gone after him._  
  
    But John didn’t blame him for running.    
  
    Suddenly his eyes stung.  He wiped furiously at them, squeezing them shut, pushing away the lump in his throat.    
  
    “John?”  he heard Harry say, quietly, “What’s up?”  
  
    “I dunno Harry, I fucked up,” he said angrily.   
    
    “How so?”  
  
    “I just...I messed up with a friend and I don’t know what to do about it,” he didn’t want to get into it with her.  Too many questions would arise.  He just couldn’t answer them all tonight.   
  
    “Go talk to them,” she said, softly.      
  
    “I can’t,” he shook his head furiously, “I just can’t.”     
  
    “Is it over a girl?  Like, did you sleep with someone’s girlfriend or something?”  
  
    “No, it’s–,” but he couldn’t say it.  
  
    She sat up, looking pitying at him again, “The only way you’ll make things better is if you go to them and talk things out.”  
  
    “I don’t even know if it’s salvageable,” he met her eyes.   
   
    “John,” and he was surprised to see her smiling, “you’re like the sweetest person I know–.”  
  
    He snorted and shook his head.  
  
    “No, I’m serious, yeah you got into a few fights, but seriously?  Who could stay mad at you?”  
  
    “I really hurt someone.”  
  
    “Like, physically?”  
  
    “No, no,” he shook his head again, trying to find words around the truth.    
  
    “John, go talk to them, they’ll see your face and you’ll apologize and it’ll be fine.”  
  
    John didn’t answer.    
  
    “You’re always worrying, do something that’ll make you happy, like, why put yourself through all this pain?” she said, lifting the mug from glass and taking a sip, “if you want, take a night so they can sleep it off then go see them tomorrow.”  
  
    But he was already standing up.  She was right.    
  
  _Do something that’ll make you happy._  
  
    This was what he wanted.  Sherlock’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, handsome but sad, and he thought his heart might just burst.  His fear was slowly being replaced.  
  
   _This pain is unnecessary._         
   
    “No, I’ve gotta go tonight.”   
  
    He wouldn’t be able to sleep anyhow.  
  
      
    He had to keep from running.  Thoughts, words, whirled around in his head but he pushed them all aside.  He couldn’t think, couldn’t plan what he was going to say or he’d never say anything, he knew that to his core.  
  
    John hurried into the woods that lead to the school.  He crunched through the dead leaves littering the forest floor, the moonlight peeking through the bare tree branches above him, the street finally disappearing from view.  He knew where to go, knew Sherlock.  
  
   _I know him.  I know him._  
  
    That knowledge somehow reassured him, kept his feet moving forward.  
             
    He finally reached the clearing with the bench sitting under the overhand from the trees, but it wasn’t isolated tonight.   
   
    Sherlock sat there with his knees pulled to his chest, his collar up against the night breeze finding its way through the trees.  John hesitated.  But he’d already alerted Sherlock to his presence, as Sherlock lifted his head.  John was relieved to see that his face was dry.   
      
  
    “Sherlock,” he whispered and stepped into the clearing.    
  
    “John,” Sherlock said quietly, unfurling himself and standing up to meet him.  John couldn’t make out his emotions, he was too muddled up with figuring out his own.  John drew in a deep breath, not planning the words, not reminding himself what to say or how to say it, he just spoke, “I–I want to kiss you and hold your hand and and I want to touch you, and you’re so attractive, and handsome...I’m just...I mean, I was afraid,” he wanted Sherlock to know that from this point on, he was all in, although in his bones he remained terrified.  Before Sherlock could respond, John took several long strides until he was right in front of him, never breaking eye contact, grabbed him by the front of his coat, pulling his face down to his level.  Sherlock’s bright, bright eyes were wide and full of some emotion that John couldn’t read in that moment, but he didn’t care.  He brought his mouth up to his, kissing him clumsily, but determinedly.    
  
    John actually let out a shocked breath at the sudden feeling of Sherlock’s cold, soft lips on his.  The unanticipated emotion fighting in his chest made him feel like crumpling up on the ground, it was so powerful.  But then Sherlock was kissing back, his head tilting, mouth opening.  His hands wrapped around John’s waist, finally Sherlock knew where to put them, and pulled him close.  Their kissing became fierce, needing, their lips pressing, their hands pulling.  John ran his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, making their kiss wet and warm.  Sherlock’s hands moved up on either side of John’s face, cupping his jaw, trying to pull him as close as possible.  John let out a small whine into Sherlock’s mouth, wrapping his arms around his middle, pressing their hips together.  He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.   
       
    They finally broke apart for air, both panting.    
  
    “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” Sherlock whispered.  He sounded slightly confused at his confession, or perhaps just with those feelings.  
    
    “But I have no idea how to do any of this,” he continued.  
  
    John’s eyes shone, wide with contentedness all the same.  He felt unbelievably relaxed, almost exhausted, like he could sleep happily for a whole week, and only dream of Sherlock.    
  
    “Neither do I,” John murmured and he kissed him once more, then pulled back.  
  
    “I’m sorry, about earlier, about everything.”  
  
    “I don’t blame you,” Sherlock muttered, holding John’s hands and gripping them tightly, their foreheads pressed together, “it was easier for me to come to terms with my feelings, perhaps, since I often don’t give in to societal pressures.”  John snorted with laughter.  Sherlock and his words.  They stood there, silent, for a long while.    
       
    “I’d better go, though,” John finally muttered, “You know, school tomorrow.”  The thought of seeing Sherlock in school, of remembering their intimacy made his stomach turn over, but in the best way possible.  
  
    “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Sherlock chuckled, low and deep, his eyes alight with what John recognized as happiness.  
  
    “And I’m suspended,” John remembered.    
  
    Sherlock’s look turned concerned, “Right,” he muttered, touching his fingers to John’s split lip, then to the spot just under his black eye.   
  
    “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said.  
  
    John just shook his head.    
  
    Then they came together again, their lips locked in each other.  John shuffled his feet forward, pushing Sherlock until his back was against a tree.  They kissed and groped until John thought he just might cry with happiness and the exasperation of wanting.  
  
    Wanting Sherlock.   
   
    Some of the fear began to leave him as he tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and knew that this is what he wanted, what he felt like he’d never be able to live without.  They kissed for a while longer, slowing down, savoring their long moment.    
  
    “God, don’t go,” John breathed when they pulled apart again.    
  
      “I wasn’t leaving.”  
  
    “I know, I was talking to myself,” Sherlock laughed softly and John smiled, watching him.  
  
    “I do need to go though...,” he had to get home, get to bed, he hadn't been sleeping, but he just pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest, sinking into him.  Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders, holding him.  
    
    “You know I never beg, but,” Sherlock paused, “Please don’t go yet.”  John sighed, filled with such a deep, longing, satisfaction and hugged him tighter.  He’d been afraid, yes.  But just then, with no prying eyes, no unholy voices in his head, he felt happy.  Sherlock, cold, calculating, too good for anyone, but he wanted John.  He wanted John, his only friend.  
  
    Eventually, when the cold had crept through their coats and the moon had begun to set, they pulled apart.  John looked up into Sherlock’s pink, shining face.   
   
    “What?”   
  
    “You’re just...I didn’t think this would happen,” John said slowly.  He hadn’t wanted it to happen because the implications had seemed too great, but now...  
  
    Sherlock didn’t seem surprised, “I didn’t either,” John felt his fingers pressing lightly to his wrist, “I certainly didn’t even expect to have a friend like you, much less...” he trailed off, their words echoing around them.          
  
    Sherlock glanced over John’s face one last time before letting go of him.    
    “I’ll...see you,” John felt strange saying such a usual goodbye.  But it promised good fortune for the days to come.    
  
    “Yeah,” Sherlock breathed, never taking his eyes from John’s face.  John reached for Sherlock’s hand.  Their fingers entwined for just a moment.  Then John pulled himself away, back into the shadow of the trees.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this a long chapter? It felt long to me. All those feelings had to get out (and we all know how our two boys deal with feelings, ugh). Thank you for sticking with me!


	6. Chapter 6

    John’s grades in school had been gaining momentum since he and Sherlock had met, but now John worried that with such a brilliant distraction sitting several rows of desks over from him, they would start to slip again, just after the winter holidays.  He just couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding Sherlock’s way in English class while Mrs. Barnes discussed the adulterer Hester Prynne.  Or during Math, which was his worst subject anyhow, and especially not in Chemistry since Sherlock had started sitting next to him in place of Mary who had unobtrusively moved to sit beside Molly ever since the disaster at Tom’s party.     
     
    John and Sherlock stood pressed against the outside school wall during break, trying to keep their place among all of the other students in their year under the overhang of the roof to avoid the steady drizzle of rain.    
  
    “Not sleeping?” Sherlock asked as a way of greeting, motioning to John’s face with his long pointer finger.  John self consciously touched the area just under his eye.  
  
    “Yeah,” he said, looking down.  
   
    “Want to talk about it?”    
      
    “Only to you,” John said quietly and he thought he saw Sherlock almost smile, “my parents have stopped their yelling.”  
  
    “Well that’s good, isn’t it?”  
  
    “I thought it would be, but it’s like they’re just resigned to silence now, so they’re still not working anything out,” he sighed, frustrated, “I barely sleep anymore.”  
  
    “Me either,” Sherlock said, “Mind you, that’s by choice, though.”  John knew Sherlock’s restlessness carried over well into the early hours of the morning, reading and re-reading books, setting things on fire, “experimenting” as he called it.  
  
    “But you know, since neither of us are doing much sleep you should come over some time we can...play board games.”    
  
    John looked away, trying not to grin.    
  
    “Sherlock, shush,” he murmured, looking nervously over his shoulder.    
  
    “Oh right, secretive, I almost forgot,” he said, sniffily.  Sherlock hadn’t been as keen on the idea of their relationship remaining under the radar.    
  
       _“Seems unnecessary, what’s the worst that could happen?” Sherlock asked as they walked home together._  
  
 _“Harry got a ton of shit when she finally came out, even two years later she still gets a snide remark once and a while and some people won’t even acknowledge her,” John told him._  
  
 _Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, “If a snide remark is all, then I think both of us are hard enough to take that.”_  
  
 _“It’s not just remarks, though,” John pushed onward, that familiar fear creeping back in again, “it’s the constant fear that someone’s judging you based on that one trait and they’ll treat you differently because of it, and then there’s the constant looking over your shoulder because in a small city like this there are probably more violent bigots than not, Harry’s had to fight her way to safety more times than once.”_  
  
 _“You care too much about what people think,” Sherlock sniffed, “and it’s not as if you couldn’t take down anyone who tried to hurt you, I’ve seen you fight.”_  
  
 _“No, I care about living in a safe environment, and even you said it yourself that my fighting would eventually get me hurt, and don’t give me that BS, as if you don’t care what people think.”_  
  
 _“I don’t!”_  
  
 _John fixed him with a ‘you’re not fooling me’ look._  
  
 _“I only care what people think if I like them which is very few people,” Sherlock finally answered, shortly._  
  
 _“Regardless,” John rolled his eyes, “can we please keep it under wraps for now?”_  
  
 _Sherlock’s gaze slid to the side where John had fixed him with a stare, and eventually nodded._  
  
 _“Thank you.”_    
  
   
    John opened his mouth to reply when someone suddenly clapped him on the shoulder, “Alright, John?”  He turned to find Mike, James, Greg, and Tom had come over, the hoods of their jackets and sweatshirts pulled over their heads as cover from the rain.  
  
    “Hey guys,” John said, feeling nervous as Sherlock shifted beside him, “Ah, guys, this is Sherlock, Sherlock this is Mike, James, Greg, and Tom,” John pointed to each individually.     
  
    “Right, we have French together,” Tom said, nodding at Sherlock.  Sherlock nodded politely back at him but didn’t say anything.  John felt the color draining from his face.  What if Sherlock said something to offend them?  What if his friends didn’t like him?  What if he didn’t like his friends?  
  
    “John, are you alright?  You’re looking pale,” Sherlock commented.    
  
    “Mm fine,” John said.  
   
    “Sherlock,” Mike put a hand on his shoulder, John winced, “You know you’re my hero in English class, I don’t think I could make it through Mrs. Barnes‘ ramblings without your comments.”  
  
    “I didn’t think anyone could hear me,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised.    
  
    “Yeah well, you mutter loudly, it keeps me going,” Mike laughed.  John looked cautiously at Sherlock but saw him grinning.  
  
    “You should definitely speak up more,” Mike joked.  
  
    “Last time I did that I got kicked out for the rest of class, remember?” Sherlock chuckled.    
  
    “You should come sit in in Mr. Howard’s class,” James rolled his eyes, “he just drones on and on, it’s terrible.”  
  
    “Had him last year,” Sherlock said, “He wouldn’t be so nasally if he just got rid of his cat, but, people do get attached to their pets.”  They all laughed.  John lightened a bit as the awkwardness began to ebb away.  Sherlock cast him a sidelong glance and John knew that he was nervous, too.  
               
    Just then, Haley Peele, a new girl at their school, walked by and Mike’s head immediately turned to watch her pass.        
  
    “Reel it back in, Mike,” John remarked.  Mike turned back as they all laughed, except for him.    
  
    “She’s a looker, isn’t she?”  Tom, Greg, and James nodded in agreement, John made a noncommittal sort of noise in his throat.  
  
    “She likes you, you know,” Sherlock commented.  They all turned to him at his words, Mike looked excited, “You think so?”  
  
    “I know so,” Sherlock jerked his head in her direction, “once you turned around she couldn’t keep her eyes off you, and I’ve seen the notes she passes her friend in our English class.”    
  
    “Go talk to her, mate,” James said, nudging Mike in the ribs.  He went pale and shook his head, “Nah.”  
  
    “Who likes me?” Tom piped up, eyes on Sherlock.  
  
    “And me?” Greg cut in as well.  James and John exchanged exasperated looks and just shook their heads.  
  
    “Well, Tom, the girl in the red dress over there’s had her eye on your all break, although she’s hanging very closely to the boy beside her which suggests she’s in a relationship already,” Tom looked over in the direction that Sherlock had indicated anyway.  
  
    “And Greg, I can’t be sure, but Molly Hooper has mentioned your name at least three times during our last conversation which definitely means that you’re on her mind,” Sherlock noted.    
  
    “I’m pretty sure she likes you,” John muttered, looking pointedly at Sherlock.  
  
    He looked confused and furrowed his brow, “Do you think?”    
   
    “Well she and I are old friends,” said Greg, sounding a bit disappointed.  
      
    “Either way, you’re going to be very useful,” Tom said, slinging an arm up around Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, but smiled.  
  
    The bell rang just then and the students began to break up their conversations, heading indoors.  
  
    “Sherlock, we’re having our usual pizza night this Saturday, you’re welcome to join,” Mike said.  Sherlock smiled, as they joined the crowd heading inside.    
  
    John grabbed his wrist before they went in and squeezed it quickly.  He was glad things had apparently gone so well with his friends.  
  
    “Not bad for being so socially inept,” John poked.  
  
    Sherlock gave him a disgruntled look, rolling his eyes.  But by the little smile that appeared on his face a moment later, John knew he was pleased with himself.  
  
    “Want to come over after school?”  
  
    John agreed, wholeheartedly.    
  
  
\-------  
  
  
    Tired after a long school day, John and Sherlock trudged through the streets back to Sherlock’s house.  Even though John felt drained, not just from classes but also from his continuous lack of sleep, he still felt giddy and slightly nervous as they made their way upstairs to Sherlock’s bedroom.  Sherlock tossed his backpack to the floor when they entered his room and flopped down on his back onto the bed.  John placed his backpack beside the bed, took his shoes off and sat lightly on the edge of the bed.  The first night he’d come here was replaying in his head.  He glanced at Sherlock, his eyes unfocused on the ceiling.  
  
    It was the first time since the night in the woods that they’d been alone together.  He wasn’t completely sure what to expect, or what Sherlock expected.  He tried to remember the beginnings of any of his past relationships, but none of them had started with such an intense friendship, and a need for secrecy.  With his past girlfriends there were set guidelines to what was expected.    
  
    Things should just go normally, he told himself.  
  
    “Uh, you wanna watch a movie?” he asked.  Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes searching John’s face.  John felt himself go red under the scrutiny and looked away.  The speed of his pulse began to increase.    
            
    “Yeah,” he heard Sherlock agree.  The TV clicked on and Sherlock appeared to just pick the first movie he came across.  John moved further onto the bed, pulling his legs up beside Sherlock’s.  The tension in the space between them was like an electric pulse, searching for relief.  Sherlock had a pillow propped up behind his head so he could see the TV.  He turned onto his side, his feet brushing against John’s.  John felt his breath catch in his throat at the contact.  Slowly, immensely aware of his awkward, jerky movements, he turned on his side as well, his left arm holding up his head, eyes unseeing on the TV.  He was eager to touch Sherlock again.  He hadn’t thought about anything else since that night.  But he didn’t want to push, and didn’t even know if Sherlock wanted the same.  Batting eyelashes, rubbing close didn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d do, which were the usual signs John understood from girls.  He chanced a glance over and saw Sherlock quickly look away.  
  
     _Does he?_  
  
    John acted like he was just shifting to get more comfortable and moved slightly closer so that he was nearly on Sherlock’s pillow.  John looked down at him just as Sherlock lifted his head to meet his eyes.  John thought his heart might just explode at the pace it was going, his nerves propelling it onward.    
  
    He leaned forward and was very pleased when Sherlock tilted his head upward.  When their lips, soft, warm, and wet, met, the tension broke.  John moved his mouth slowly against Sherlock’s, Sherlock returning with eagerness.  He heard a soft whine escape Sherlock’s lips and had to stop himself from moaning in longing.  He cupped his smooth face.  Sherlock’s hand was around the back of his neck, pulling him down.  John opened his mouth and Sherlock’s tongue slipped in, then out.  John moved closer, entwining their legs, pushing himself partially on top of him.  Then Sherlock’s mouth was open against his, nudging him backwards.  John gave in and turned onto his back, Sherlock lifting himself up, without breaking their kiss, and rolled on top of him.  Sherlock lay in between his legs, hoisting himself above John with his hands on either side of his head so John had to prop himself on his elbows to keep their contact going.  John couldn’t help himself and pressed his hips upwards to meet Sherlock’s and Sherlock responded, pushing back timidly.        
  
    Then Sherlock pulled back.  John opened his eyes to find him looking down at him with a questioning stare.    
  
    “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sherlock said, very softly.    
  
    John almost laughed, “You’re doing fine.”  He didn’t want to be indecent but Sherlock had certainly managed a _response_ from him.    
  
    “John, I think we should set some parameters,” he sat back.    
  
    “Parameters?”  
  
    “Yes, I mean, in entering a romantic relationship, it only seems proper.”  
  
    He was making it sound like they were entering into some kind of binding, lawful contract.  
  
    “Erm, okay.”  
  
    “This is all new to me, I think you already know that, but my inexperience shouldn’t be a hindrance,” he said, “I’m eager to learn and have the ability to rather quickly.”    
  
    It sounded like a job interview.  
  
    “I know,” John laughed slightly.  
  
    “Well, some questions should be answered before we get too far into this, for example, are we going to have sex?”  
  
    John’s heart felt like it had just fallen out the bottom of his stomach.  His cheeks heated up again and he started stuttering, “I uh, I don’t, jesus, Sherlock...uhh.”  
  
    Sherlock’s face was serious, “I’ve just never done this before.”  He looked pained for a moment, and then John realized why he was acting so strangely.  
  
    “We’ll be fine,” John whispered, “I’ve never done this either.”  
  
    “Yes you have,” Sherlock said indignantly, “I understand that you’ve had an array of girlfriends–.”  
  
    “Yes, but none of them have been like you, or for that matter, _you_ ,” John said, staring intently at Sherlock, needing him to understand that it was _all good_ , that he wouldn’t mess things up.    
  
    “But is this something that will be long term or are you imagining it being short lived?  You’ve mentioned that you want it to be secretive, will there ever be a time when it won’t be?  And what is generally expected on my side of the relation–.”  
  
    “Stop,” John held up a hand, sitting up, “Just stop, for a sec.”  
  
    Sherlock reserved to pause.    
  
    John took a deep breath and started, “I’ve never gone into a relationship thinking it’ll be short lived, and this one isn’t any different.”  
  
    Sherlock listened, watching him.  
  
    “There will be a time when I come out to my parents, my friends, but I think I’d like to ease into things, I’m, well, I’m a little afraid of what they all might say.”  He looked down at his crossed legs, his fingers playing with a thread on the end of his jeans.  
  
    “Well your parents shouldn’t be very surprised or concerned after Harry.”  
  
    John raised his eyebrows, “You don’t think they’d be upset that _both_ of their kids are gay?”  
  
    “Are you gay?”  
  
    John paused, then frowned.  
  
    “Well, I guess not, not exactly, I suppose I’m...bisexual,” he stopped again then asked, “Are you?”  He felt uneasy thinking about what to label himself.  He’d always believed he was straight, it was what all kids believed when they were small, wasn’t it?  He furrowed his brow, feeling frustrated, like how he’d felt when he’d wrestled with the whole concept, especially after kissing Sherlock that first time.     
  
    Sherlock went on, “I’ve been considering it and I think I must be, I’ve never found myself attracted to a woman, and you’re the only person I’ve found suitable to let myself be attracted to and since you’re male, I would say yes, although there are a number of sexualities other than gay, straight, and bisexual.”  
  
    “Oh, I see,” John didn’t really know what to say further than that.    
  
    “So what’s generally expected from me?” Sherlock asked.  John wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d taken out a pen and pencil to take notes, but then he remembered that Sherlock’s mind worked similarly.  
  
    John shrugged, “Just this,” he motioned between them, “hanging out as friends and, you know, kissing, I guess.”  He was having issues explaining a relationship, it was common knowledge to most.    
  
    “But what if–,” but John leaned forward, hands on either side of his face and kissed him again.    
  
    “It’s all good,” he said, pulling back.  Sherlock still looked wary, but gave in to another kiss.  John pulled him back down on top of him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, nudging him with his lips.  Their breathing turned into panting before long as the intensity of their kissing and groping increased.  John held him around the waist, and slipped his slightly trembling fingers under his shirt, admiring the warm, smooth, skin underneath.    
  
    Sherlock’s question came back to him, _“Are we going to have sex?”_  
  
    Now that he was no longer overcome with the embarrassment and straightforwardness of the moment, he found that the question had merit.  Sherlock pressing onto him, their legs tangled together then made him want it, more than ever.    
  
     _Sex with Sherlock?_   He couldn’t even muster enough embarrassment in that moment to worry, didn’t question how or when or what it would mean, he just thought, yes.  
  
    “I should say, dear brother, if you’re going to get off with someone in your room, do close your door.”  
  
    They immediately leapt apart as if they’d been electrocuted by the sound of the drawling voice in the doorway.  John shot up as Sherlock clambered off of him.  A tall man, early twenties by the look of him, stood leaning against the doorframe, smiling knowingly.           
  
    “Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, “Why are you here?”    
  
    “Just thought I’d visit,” he kept his grin plastered on his face even at the rudeness of Sherlock’s words.  
  
    “Ah, and you must be John,” he stepped toward the bed, holding out his hand.    
  
    John hurriedly got to his feet and shook Mycroft’s hand, his face blisteringly hot with embarrassment.  
  
    “Mum’s downstairs, she has a question for you,” Mycroft mentioned, directing his words at Sherlock.    
  
    Even without looking John knew Sherlock had rolled his eyes by the tone of his voice when he groaned, “Does she _need_ to bother me?”  
  
    “She requested you specifically,” Mycroft’s eyes were narrowed, but his smile remained.    
  
    “Alright,” Sherlock muttered, pushing himself off the bed.  He gave one more look back at Mycroft and John when he reached the doorway, “I’ll be back in a minute,” then left.  
  
    “So, John,” Mycroft turned his full attention back to him, “you’ve taken on the duty of the first ever friend and more to Sherlock, I see.”  
  
    John wanted to step back, Mycroft was uncomfortably close to him, but he remained stationary, rooted to the spot, “Uh, yeah, I have.”  He bobbed his head trying to seem casual about it all, like they hadn’t just been caught in a compromising position.  
   
    “Well, I’m glad you took to him so easily, not many people do,” he sniffed, the thought seeming to give him some distress.  
  
    John just nodded, not sure how to respond.  
  
    “There are reasons, you know,” he said, eyes boring into John’s, “He’s terribly difficult to live with, sometimes goes days on end without sleeping which of course puts him in a terrible mood so that he can’t decipher the difference between being polite and being downright unpleasant.”    
  
    John felt uneasy, but not at his words, more so from the implication lying just below them.  
  
    “Are you trying to put me off?” he asked.  
  
    “Oh no,” he chuckled, “Not at all, just thought you should know what you’re getting yourself into.”  
  
    “I do know what I’m getting myself, I mean, what I’m doing,” John said in a steady voice, trying to keep eye contact with those cold eyes.  
  
    “Good,” Mycroft smiled, “Good to hear.”  
  
    Just then they heard footsteps on the stairs.  
  
    “Mum’s not even home yet,” Sherlock snarled as soon as he was in sight.  
  
    “Which you should’ve known before even going down there, it’s only 2:30,” Mycroft sneered back at him.    
  
    “Out,” Sherlock gestured toward the hallway.  
   
    Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned back to John, “So good to meet you, John.”  He left, ignoring Sherlock’s glares as he went.  
  
      
    They spent the rest of the afternoon doing homework, and trying to keep from getting too distracted by one another.  They sat on his bed with their textbooks and notebooks spread out around them, with their fingers brushing one another’s every so often, as well as their lips.  Sherlock put on a Billie Holiday record and they kissed to the sound of her crooning voice.  
   
    Around 5:00, they heard footsteps on the stairs.  
   
    “Sherlock?”a woman’s voice called from the hallway.  A kind face with Sherlock’s bright eyes appeared around the doorjamb.    
  
    “Oh, John, so good to see you,” she cooed, smiling, “Are you staying for dinner?”  
  
    “Oh, well–,” John looked sideways at Sherlock.    
  
    “He’ll be staying,” Sherlock called over to her.  
  
    “Good, we’re having calzones, any preference for cheese?”  John shook his head.  
  
    “And Sherlock, I got a call from your World History teacher today, should I be worried?”  
  
    John looked up, eyebrows raised at Sherlock.  
  
    “It’ll be taken care of, Mum,” Sherlock huffed.  John had to work hard to keep from snickering.  She gave him a stern look, turned back to John and said, “So good to see you again, dear.”  Then left.    
  
    “History?”  
  
    “My teacher didn’t appreciate my short answers, he thought I got a bit too technical on the descriptions of beheadings during the French revolution,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I tried to explain my Dickens inspiration, but he thinks I’m just a nutter.”  
  
              
    They went down for dinner when Sherlock’s dad came up to get them, John hoping he didn’t notice him casually readjusting his sweater that Sherlock had been pushing up only moments before.    
  
    John didn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes as they entered the dining room, although the conversation remained pleasant, and entirely lacking embarrassing stories, throughout their meal.  The friendliness, the comfort of this family life made John’s heart ache.  He’d had it once.  He missed it all over again.  Sherlock met his gaze part way through dinner, and might’ve noticed the sadness lingering there, or perhaps not, but he slipped his hand onto John’s leg and squeezed his hand.  John smiled back.  
   
     _Comfort._        


	7. Chapter 7

     “You’re making me look bad, getting a job before I do,” John joked once he and Harry had been seated and presented with menus.  
    
    “Maybe if you weren’t so lazy...,” she sighed, exaggeratedly.  John grinned.  It had been ages since John and Harry had gone out just the two of them and he had to admit, he kind of missed their trips to the mall together when he’d first gotten his driver’s license or their nights out to see their favorite terrible movies at the small, local theater that only showed movies after they were out on DVD.  It was a celebration today, of sorts.  Harry had gotten her hands on her first paycheck this past week after starting work at the arts and crafts store near the mall.      
  
    “Then again, I’m planning on being out of the house as soon as humanly possible,” Harry muttered, just loud enough so he could barely hear.  
  
    “So, university, then?”  
  
    She shrugged, “I’ve just got to get out, you know?”  John felt something weighing down on him again.  Sometimes the weight left, or at least got lighter, but the turn in their conversation had reminded him about it.        
  
    “What about you, then?  You’ve got less time than I do,” Harry said, looking up from her menu.    
  
    John shrugged also, “I’ll go to university, but I don’t know where, it’s just, I dunno, always been part of my plans, I guess.”  Everything had seemed wishy-washy since the first hints of a divorce in their family.  Plans for the future suddenly didn’t seem so permanent.    
  
    The waitress, a pretty girl who looked to be around college aged with short, dark red hair, came back with their drinks at that moment and took their orders.   
   
    Harry stared after her once she’d left.  
  
    “Damn,” she muttered, turning back to John and raising her eyebrows.   
   
    “Hm?” he looked up at her, sucking down his lemonade.  
      
    She furrowed her brow, “Did you not see her?”  
  
    “Who?”    
  
    “The waitress,” Harry pointed behind one of her hands.    
  
    “Huh?  Oh,” John looked toward the computer stand in the corner of the restaurant where she was inputting their orders.    
  
    “What about her?”  
  
    Harry looked at him incredulously and started to laugh, “Are you blind?”  
  
    John went red and stammered, “Oh, oh no, she’s pretty, I was just...” _thinking about Sherlock._    
  
    “Are you that hung up on Mary?” she asked, continuing to laugh.  
  
    John avoided her eyes and make an indistinct noise in his throat.  He felt an indecipherable feeling rising in his throat, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.     
  
    “I mean, Mary’s nice and all, but what do you guys even have in common?  And–”  
  
    “Harry, Sherlock and I are together.”  The words were out of his mouth before he’d even realized his brain had decided to spit them out.  His stomach that had been twisting into knots moments before suddenly felt nonexistent and anxiety gripped him all over again.        
  
    Her laughing mouth fell into a half smile, and she fixed him with a look of confusion.    
  
    “You don’t mean...”  
  
    “Yes.”  
  
    Her face changed completely, eyes widening until they were perfectly round.  
  
    “I mean...he seemed...but you?  I didn’t think...”  
  
    “Me either,” John admitted.  He should’ve expected her confusion, but he hoped she’d get over it soon because he thought he might just get sick right then.    
  
    “How...god, I mean, how did it...happen?”  
  
    “It’s a long story.”  
  
    “But I mean, since when?  Is that why he’s been coming over so often?  Have you guys been–”  
  
    John put his hands up to stop her.  
  
    “It only happened about a month and a half ago.”  
  
    “Wow,” she said back, looking a bit dazed.   
  
    “Who else have you told?”  
  
    “Just you.”  
  
    She shook her head and finally said, “John, I’m sorry, what am I asking you all this for?  Jesus, you’d think I’d be the one fucking person who would know how to reply properly to this,” her face broke out into a smile, “I’m so happy for you.”    
  
    The panic that had been gripping his chest released its hold at her words.  
  
    He exhaled and said, “thanks.”  
  
    She stared down at the table for another moment, a smile still on her face, “God,” she whispered, “whenever you two were together you seemed to just, fit, and complement one another, and now that you say that...”  She met his eyes, beaming.  He returned her excitement in a grin, relief flooding him, nearly drowning him.  
  
    She reached a hand across to him and gripped his arms that were crossed on the table.  
  
    “It’s scary, right?” she whispered.  
  
    He nodded.    
  
    “Is he,” she paused, seeming to think over her words, “your first?”  
  
    “First guy?  Yeah, yeah he is.”  
  
    “You’re lucky,” her eyes became sad when she said it, “the first girl I ever liked wasn’t remotely interested, and then the one after her was, but I was too afraid to do anything about it.”    
  
    John cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable.  He hadn’t planned on entering this conversation, and hadn’t had time to prepare himself.  
  
    “I don’t know how it worked out, or why it’s him, why he’s the one I’m interested in, it just...happened.”  
  
    “I don’t know him well, but he doesn’t have many friends, does he?”  
  
    John shook his head.  
  
    “I think you two have an important connection, then, there’s something right about it,” she said thoughtfully, “and I’m glad you didn’t throw it away.”  
  
    “I almost did,” he said, lowering his voice, not looking at her.  She squeezed his arm again in reassurance.  
  
    “Are you going to tell mom and dad?”  
  
    He looked up, and he knew Harry saw the fear in his eyes, or written on his face.   
   
    “It’ll be okay,” she said, seriously.  
  
    “I did something that makes me happy, but now I’m afraid that it’s going to become too much,” he was talking very quickly and very quietly, “what if I fucked up?”  
  
    “You didn’t,” she said, her voice full of reassurance, “because you just said it makes you happy, and I think that if it prevails, that will always outweigh any backlash you may get.”  
  
    John laughed humorlessly, “How have you dealt with this for years?  I feel like I don’t even have the right to complain, I’m coming into it pretty late.”  
  
    She shrugged, “Sherlock didn’t turn you, John, your attraction to,” she searched for the right word again, “him, or guys, was always going to be there, the right person just came along later than my person.”    
  
    They were quiet for a few minutes while John let her words sink in.    
  
    “Thanks,” he finally muttered, “for talking to me about all this, I didn’t mean to ruin the meal.”  
  
    Her real smile was back on her face now, “You didn’t ruin anything, you just gave me the greatest gift ever: someone to empathize with about my gay issues, and make a homosexual, sibling, gang with.”  
  
    They both burst out laughing.  
  
     
    The atmosphere in the house when they returned somehow seemed airier, more open.  Perhaps, John thought, they’d managed to bring the enjoyment of being outside back into the house.  But as soon as they’d taken their shoes off in the entrance hall, their father appeared on the stairs.    
  
    “Hey, you two,” he said, in his weary voice, “We’d like to speak to you in the living room.”  John and Harry exchanged a look.  
  
   _We?_  
  
    They followed him down the hall into the living room where their mom was sitting on the couch.  She had a book in her hands, the TV was off, and her hair was brushed and pulled back in a long ponytail.  She looked, almost, like a shadow of the mother they remembered from elementary school.    
  
    She got up when they entered and beckoned them to take her place on the couch.  They hesitated, then sat down.    
  
    Their father cleared his throat, sitting on the edge of the recliner beside the couch, “So, John, Harry, we’ve decided, that,” he glanced up at their mom, standing next to him, her hand on the back of the chair, “I’m going to be moving out.”    
  
    Everything in the room ceased to shift.    
  
    John’s head began to spin.  Things were moving forward now, good, right?  That’s good, isn’t it?  But his dad moving out?  A dull hollowness grew rapidly in the pit of his stomach.    
  
    “Oh, o-okay,” he heard Harry stammer next to him.  Hearing her so unsure of herself was even more off-putting.    
  
     _What do we say?  What does someone say to that?_    
  
    And then he wanted to yell.  He wanted to storm at them all over again, yell about how they shouldn’t give up, that they should keep the family together.  But that had been useless once, he knew it would continue to be.    
  
    The memory flashed in his head.  August, this past August, he was to start school in two weeks.  Apparently, they’d been discussing all summer and neither he nor Harry had heard anything about it.  Everything had seemed normal, on schedule, regularity at its most usual.    
  
    Then they’d brought him and Harry into the living room, just like this.  
  
     _“We’re getting a divorce.”  Those terrible words that no child wants to hear, especially the child that had known security and stability in this family their entire life._  
  
 _“Why?” Harry had automatically asked._  
  
 _“Well,” their mom started, “Your father and I have become unhappy, and we feel that this would be a happier environment if we were separated.”_  
  
 _“We feel that the...fulfillment we felt before has gone,  there’s just nothing between us anymore” their father mentioned._  
  
 _“Except for us,” John had said, feeling both upset and furious, “You’ve been there for each other for twenty years!  And you’ve been there for us!”_  
  
    His rage had then exploded.  
  
  
    This time, though, he just sat there, taking in their words.  
  
    “We’d like you both to stay with friends while your father moves,” their mom told them, her voice remaining even.  
  
    “Why?” John piped up finally, confused.  
  
    “It’s,” their father swallowed, “we think it’ll be easier, um, while I move my things.”  John was about to protest when his mind answered his questionings.  He imagined watching his Dad pack up all of his possessions around the house.  He didn’t think he’d be able to take it.  But then, he wondered, would be easier to come home to all of his things just gone?  Well, it would be like a band-aid ripped clean off, then.      
      
    “Ok,” he said, plainly, compliantly.  Harry starts to protest but he threw her a look that said ‘don’t’.  She didn’t argue, which meant she didn’t really know what she was going to stay to begin with.    
    
    “Ok then.”  
  
  
    John went up to his room and soon after heard Harry do the same, closing her door quietly.  He rolled onto his side, just thinking, replaying the conversation, inserting himself into different roles.  But he was tired of thinking.  He wanted to sleep, but more so, he wanted comfort and security.    
  
    His phone lay on top of a book on his nightstand.  He picked it up, found Sherlock’s texts and was about to start typing out a new one when, casually, he began to re-read their conversations.  He found himself smiling, remember the feelings of giddiness, nervous excitement, and overwhelming nostalgia.  He read through their mundane conversations, sweet phrases of flattery and Sherlock’s general inability not to say what was on his mind jumped out at him, until he reached the night he’d gone over to Sherlock’s after Harry’s party, the night of their first kiss, and stopped.  He opened a new text and sent:  
  
     _I miss you._  
  
    Less than a minute later he got a reply: _I’ll see you tonight._    
  
    John had almost forgotten about the pizza night at Mike’s.  At the moment, he felt like doing nothing more than sitting at home.  He didn’t want to interact, couldn’t imagine acting normally when things felt so strange.  
  
     _I don’t really feel like going._  
  
    There was a longer span of time until Sherlock’s next text.  
  
     _I can come by later.  Dad and I are at the record store right now._    
  
    The idea seemed perfect.  
  
  _Please._    
  
  
    After texting Mike that he was sorry, but he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to make it to pizza night that night, he sat in his room for the remainder of the afternoon, watching his backpack and hoping his homework would start itself.  He let cartoons play on his TV without really watching them, and ended up just napping on and off until it was dark out, only eating when his mom called him down for sandwiches.  At 8:00 his phone rang.  
  
    He picked it up.  
  
    “I’m outside,” came Sherlock’s voice.  
  
    “Aren’t you coming in?” John asked, wondering why he hadn’t just rung the doorbell.  
  
    “I thought we could go for a drive.”  
  
    “Where?”  
  
    “I dunno, just, around.”  
  
    “Why?”  
  
    “Because my mom said I could borrow her car,” Sherlock said, sounding annoyed, “and because you seemed like you needed it.”  
  
    John’s heart lifted, “Be out in a sec.”  
  
      
    His father didn’t say anything as he passed his study and went downstairs, nor did his Mom in the living room when he was in the hallway.  
  
    When John got outside, he saw a dark blue station wagon idling against the curb in front of his house.  He went over to it and Sherlock pushed open the passenger side door from the driver’s seat.  John got in.    
  
    “Nice ride,” he said, smirking.    
  
    “Better than your nonexistent one,” Sherlock snarked back instantly.    
  
    “No, no you’re right,” John admitted, laughing.  They paused for a moment, looking at one another, Sherlock keeping his foot on the brake.     
  
    “I want to kiss you,” John told him suddenly.  
  
    “I want to kiss you too,” Sherlock said in a low voice.  John inhaled sharply, then looked out the window to his house, feeling his heart begin to race.  
  
    They started to move, Sherlock pulling them out into the lane and began weaving them though the streets.  
  
    “So where’re we going?”    
  
    Sherlock shrugged, but John knew, just from that motion, that he wasn’t telling the truth.  
  
    “Alright,” John sat back, opening himself to the prospects of an adventure.  He slipped his hand onto Sherlock’s seat, beside his leg, and Sherlock took one of his hands of the wheel to interlace their fingers.   
   
    “So, which one is moving out?”  
  
    “How did you–uh, my dad,” said John quietly, knowing at this point that it was better just to accept, rather than question, Sherlock’s naturally heightened perceptions.  He always knew when something was wrong with John.  And if John was being completely honest with himself, he needed that.   
     
    Sherlock squeezed his hand, “I’m sorry,” he whispered.     
  
    “Thanks,” John muttered, “although I’m not completely sure whether I should feel sorry or what, I mean, I didn’t want either to move out, how can I be happy with their decision?”  John felt the frustration ebbing back in, but while they sat at a red light, Sherlock leaned over and kissed his cheek.  John, surprised, touched the warm spot on his cheek with his fingers.  Excitement fluttered in him.    
  
    They fell into a comfortable stillness, John watching the houses become smaller and the trees become larger outside of the window until they turned onto a small, dirt, path and drove up onto a hill over the dead grass.  The moon shone high above them through the sunroof.  
  
    “How’re you feeling?” John asked, looking over at Sherlock whose face was full of concern.  
  
    “Me?  I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off, “but what about you?”  
  
    “I don’t even think I want to talk,” John sighed, leaning his head back against the seat.  
  
    “What would you like to do then?”  
  
    John only had to think for a second, but it was more difficult to work up the nerve to say it.  
  
    “Let’s go in the back.”  
  
    “The back?”  
  
    “Come on,” said John, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing into the backseat as his heart thudded in his chest.  Then he went over the back of the backseat and into the trunk area.  Sherlock followed, awkwardly moving between the seats, then flopping down beside John in the back.  
  
    “We could’ve just used the doors you kno–,”  
  
    But John was kissing him, both hands holding his face.    
  
    They lay, side by side, pulling each other close.  John rolled him onto his back, fingers sliding under his buttoned up black shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows.  They were here now, all alone, and he wanted Sherlock so badly.    
  
    “Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered into John’s mouth as John pressed himself all along him, their legs curled up due to the smallness of the space.  
  
    “Sherlock,” John muttered, pulling back so he was an inch from Sherlock’s mouth, “do you...want to...?”   
  
    He saw Sherlock’s cheeks redden in the light from the moon ahead of them.   
   
    “I-I don’t know what,” Sherlock mumbled, staring desperately into John’s face above him, “what to do.”  
  
    John saw that innocence shining through again, and wanted to smile.  
  
    “I–,” Sherlock huffed, turning his head to the side, “I fear I haven’t yet grasped enough knowledge of sexual acts in order to, ah, partake in any and I fear,” he inhaled slowly, “disappointing you.”  
  
    John allowed himself to smile this time.  As he looked along Sherlock’s handsome face, he thought to himself, no, you’re what I’ve always wanted.  
  
    “You could never disappoint me,” he murmured, feeling himself blush, but not worrying if Sherlock saw.  He watched for Sherlock’s reaction, but he only turned back to face John, their noses almost touching, his face completely void of any emotion that John could make out.  Then he noticed his eyes, shining like they always did to let John know what Sherlock really felt.    
  
    “I’m not usually moved by sentiment, I–,” but then they were kissing again, fiercely and wholeheartedly.  John’s heart fluttered rapidly; he suddenly felt very nervous.  He rolled onto his side, still holding close to Sherlock.  Sherlock turned, facing him, their bodies pressed to one another, their heads lying against the floor of the trunk.  This was foreign territory for John as well, but knowing himself, and what he knew he wanted helped push forward.  Their lips met again, Sherlock’s hands clutching his jaw, John’s fingers tangled in his curls at first.  Then he started with a hand on Sherlock’s waist, his shirt pushed up, exposing his abdomen and side.  The skin was warm, welcoming.  He softly touched the outline of his bony pelvis and dipped his thumb under the waist of his jeans, pressing into the crook of his hip.  He heard Sherlock let out a long breath and opened his eyes to see him with his eyes gently closed, his face relaxed, his lips apart.  John had an overwhelming desire to know what Sherlock’s face looked like when he felt real pleasure, he wanted to hear his sounds and see his movements and feel him.  John felt overcome with heated desire just at the thought of it all.  This was the person he’d chosen and wanted.  He’d imagined being with Sherlock like this so many times over before, more times than he’d like to admit, and now that it was happening, his want for it overflowed.         
  
    He started to undo Sherlock’s belt, slowly, so he could be stopped at any moment.  Although his nerves were sizzling with excitement, there was a part of him that knew Sherlock’s inexperience and awkwardness with these kinds of things.  Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands again and ended up placing them against John’s chest as he waited for him to finish undoing his pants.    
  
    “Are you okay?” John whispered.  
  
    “Yeah,” Sherlock replied under his breath.   For once he didn’t seem to know what to say.    
  
    John shakily unbuttoned Sherlock’s pants, then unzipped them.  He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s skin, waiting to be touched.  He glanced down and saw close-fitting, gray boxer briefs beneath his tight black pants, and finally slipped his hand, tentatively, under the waistband of his briefs.  Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was swiftly followed by low, quick pants as John wrapped his hand around him and started to move.    
  
    John kissed him and pressed his other hand to Sherlock’s jawline, holding him close.  Sherlock let out a soft whine through his lips, and then a low moan.  John quickened his movements, flicking his wrist up and down, up and down.        
   
    Sherlock rolled onto his back again, it seemed involuntarily, his arms at his sides with his fingers spread out, pressed hard to the floor.  He lifted his head back, eyes squeezed shut, exposing his long neck.  John felt his own breath catch in his throat.  Once again he was overtaken by how breathtaking Sherlock was; he wished to see every inch of him.    
  
    John turned so that he was partially on top of him, his pelvis pressing against Sherlock’s side, releasing some of his own tension, his hand still stroking.  He leaned over Sherlock and pressed his lips to his throat.  Sherlock reacted immediately, arching his back, another moan escaping his lips.  Without warning, he pulled John completely on top of him, trapping John’s hand between them.  Sherlock reached down and began undoing John’s jeans, his fingers steadier than John’s had been.  John pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s pants, using it to hold himself up as Sherlock worked his zipper down.  A small, “ah” escaped his lips as Sherlock’s long fingers brushed against him, pressing hard against his briefs.    
  
    “You should...take these off,” Sherlock muttered, pulling at the waist of his jeans, “they’re, ah, a hindrance in these...situations...”    
  
    “You should too,” John said.  He rolled off and they both shimmied out of their pants as quickly as they could considering their legs were scrunched up and they had to undo their shoes as well.  But then they were back at one another, chests pressing together, legs entangling, only the barrier of their shirts and their boxer briefs between them.  They rubbed against one another; John felt himself soaking through his underwear.  There were so many things he wanted to say, to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, he wanted to turn him on until he was so overwhelmed he came right then and there.  Instead, he pushed his hand into his boxers again, wrapped his fingers around him, and started moving rapidly, faster and faster.  Sherlock pushed into his hand in little thrusts, whimpering into John’s ear.  Then Sherlock’s hand found its way into John’s briefs and when his fingers, thin and long wrapped around him, he almost stopped completely, the irrepressible wanting finally breeched, but Sherlock panted into his ear, “don’t stop,” so he continued after a brief pause, Sherlock’s hand now moving faster on him, pulling and pressing, pressure building in him readying for release.  And above all, it was Sherlock doing it.  He couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else, boy or girl, there in that moment.        
  
    “I’m–ah,” Sherlock whined, and John knew he was close.  John thrusted his hand  up and down once more and warm liquid spilled out into his hand, Sherlock’s whole body shuddering with the release.   
  
    “Ah, I’m, I’m sorry,” Sherlock panted as John pulled his hand out, covered in cum.  
    “I don’t mind,” John smiled.  Sherlock felt around behind him on the floor and pulled a towel around, then handed it to John.  John wiped his hand off and tossed the towel aside.    
  
    “You might need that, actually” Sherlock muttered, wrapping an arm around John’s waist, pulling them close again, and fiercely pushing their lips back together, slipping his tongue into John’s open mouth, eager.  John almost laughed again at his eagerness, but Sherlock’s hands were on him and all other thoughts were wiped away.  
           
    Sherlock might never have done this before, but he certainly knew what he was doing now.  It didn’t take much for John.  Just Sherlock looking down at him, his eyes dancing as he watched John pant and squirm under him, mixed with Sherlock’s hands on him was enough.   
       
    The aftermath was them lying side by side, sweating and panting.  John felt utterly content, but he turned and asked, “You okay?”  
  
    Sherlock didn’t answer right away, his eyes were closed and his breathing was slowly returning to normal, but he finally slurred, “Mm, more than okay.”  
  
    “Good,” John lay his head back down, staring at the ceiling of the car.  
  
    “Although I’ll need a change of underwear, no doubt a shower,” Sherlock mumbled.  Then a smile crept onto his face.  
        
    “When we met I never thought I’d be jerking you off in the back of my mother’s car several months on,” Sherlock breathed.  The both started to laugh and John went brick red, “Oh, Jesus, I hadn’t thought of it like that,” then, “You never imagined?” John added, pushing himself up onto his elbows and glancing at Sherlock.    
  
    “Did you?” their eyes met briefly, then John looked away.    
  
    “I uh, thought about it, occasionally, but I just pushed it away whenever it occurred to me that I wanted you as, well, more than a friend,” John said, clenching and unclenching his hands unconsciously.   
      
    “Hm,” was all Sherlock said.  
  
    John waited, and when he didn’t continue he asked, “When did you know you, ya know, liked me?”  
  
    Sherlock took a deep breath, and not looking at John answered, “Well, I certainly felt strange after our first meeting.  No one had ever taken that much interest in me, mostly because I don’t like people to, and for some reason I let you in.”  
  
    “You felt strange?  How so?”  
  
    “Ah, well I kept thinking about you.  At first I attributed it to the adrenalin of our situation and my brain taking in and repeating the details of that night,” he said, “but, then I saw you at school and felt,” he put a hand on his abdomen, “nervous, and no one’s ever made me feel nervous before.”  John couldn’t help himself from grinning at that.    
  
    “I thought well, maybe I was nervous because you knew something about me that could be used against me, but I kept going over our meeting in my head and it seemed unlikely after our exchanged,” he paused to take a breath, “finally, I exhausted what I believed to be every other possibility, and eventually landed on attraction, which was completely new to me.  And although I used the excuse that I needed help coping with my habit when I came to you a week after our meeting, I probably had ulterior motives, I realized sometime later.”  
  
    John was quiet for awhile, processing Sherlock’s words.  
  
    “Why didn’t you say anything?  You’re always so...upfront,” John mentioned, curiously.  
  
    Sherlock frowned, seeming annoyed, “I fell into the belief that you could never return my feelings, because of...well, I also believed our friendship, and our abilities and duties to keep one another from our addictions was more important than my desire to be intimate with you.”    
  
    “How did you not deduce that I had feelings for you, though?” John asked, suddenly anxious.  
  
    “I’ve never been reliant on my emotions, and once I realized my feelings for you, I thought I was projecting them onto you.”  
  
    They were silent, then.  
  
    “But then you kissed me and I was confused all over again because it hadn’t mattered that I’d repressed myself, once you did that all my feelings surfaced again and outweighed the logic of the situation,” Sherlock said very quickly, “but then you left, and I could tell you were visibly upset and you didn’t keep in contact with me afterwards, I was very confused, which was the cause for my anger the night I saw you kissing Mary at that party.”  
  
    “I’m sorry,” John said quietly, and meant it, and needed Sherlock to know he meant it, “I never–.”  
  
    “Doesn’t matter now,” Sherlock said, trying to smile, “it all worked out in the end.”  
  
     _Right._       
  
    “We should probably,” Sherlock motioned to their pants lying discarded beside them.  
  
    “Oh, right, right,” John handed Sherlock his, then started to put on his own.   
   
    They redressed in an awkward sort of silence.    
  
    “I’m glad things worked out,” John said suddenly when Sherlock was starting to climb over into the backseat again.  Sherlock paused.  
  
    “And I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble,” he finished, looking down where he sat, his feet tucked up under him.    
  
    “I caused myself this trouble,” Sherlock said, then he smiled, “and it’s not trouble.”  He reached out a hand and John look it, squeezing it.       
    
    He noticed Sherlock’s arm then.  
  
    “During that week we weren’t speaking, did you,” John’s eyes flicked to his face then back to his arm again, “keep up your end of the deal.”  Sherlock’s eyes roamed John’s face before answering, quietly, “yes.”  
  
    “Good,” John felt relieved, “how’d you do it?”  _Because I wasn’t able to._  
  
    “I just kept hearing your voice in my head telling me it’ll kill me, like those cigarettes but faster, and that just...helped.”     
   
    John, still holding Sherlock’s hand, brought it up to his face and kissed his palm.  
  
    “I’m glad.”  
  



	8. Chapter 8

    It was weird staying inside all the time.  When weeks and months would normally be sprinkled with trips to museums, dates to dinner, to movies, for walks holding hands out in the parks around the city, John became restless staying inside.  His only dates with Sherlock were constructed of watching movies in Sherlock’s bedroom, play video games in John’s bedroom, and the occasional chaste trips out to lunch.  Outside made up the map of the zones where holding hands, kissing, and certainly any further groping would be off limits for them if they were to remain secretive.  
  
    Even John’s own house became an off-limits zone for their displays of affection after his mother had nearly walked in on them when they were supposedly playing _Time Splitters 2_.      
  
    John found himself fantasizing about going out with Sherlock, holding his hand, kissing him over a dinner table.  He wished they could at least just go outside and no one else would be around.  Everywhere would be completely deserted and they’d be allowed to do whatever they wanted, wherever they wanted.    
  
    “Hey, John,” John pulled himself out of his reverie and looked around for the source of the voice.  He sat on a blow-up mattress at the foot of Greg’s bed, a copy of _Heart of Darkness_ on his lap.  Greg was standing in the middle of his bedroom, plopping down a duffle bag onto the floor and pulling off his track shoes.  
  
    “Oh, hey,” John shook his head a little, clearing away thoughts of Sherlock, “how was the gym?”    
  
    “It was alright, going on Friday afternoons is worth it cuz no one’s there,” he wiped his forehead with the front of his shirt.     
   
    John had been staying at Greg’s since Monday, the day his father’s packing began.  It had been pleasant so far, Greg’s mom was good friends with John’s so she’d been accommodating and doting, but he still felt misplaced.  His bedroom had always been his sanctuary and as much as he liked Greg, he missed the privacy and his own belongings.  Most of all, he and Sherlock hadn’t been able to see one another all that much.         
  
    Greg had turned to go take a shower when he stopped, “Oh, I almost forgot, wanna go see a movie tonight with the guys?”  
  
    “Sure, what movie?” John asked, flipping closed _Heart of Darkness_ , that he hadn’t been reading anyhow.  
  
    “I can’t remember the name of it, Tom picked it so it’ll be hit or miss, you’ve got money?  If not I can lend you some,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts.  
  
    “No, I’ve still got some allowance, thanks,”  Greg’s mom hadn’t been the only one being overly nice to him.  Ever since he’d arrived, Greg had kept checking that his bed was comfortable enough, he had access to the pantry downstairs, his key worked on all the locks in their house, he knew how to use the television, and made sure to stay far, far away from the subject of John’s reason for being there.  
  
    Suddenly, John’s previous daydreaming sparked something in his thoughts.  He wasn’t sure if he’d regret it or not but it felt fiercely right, “Hey, Greg?  Would it be okay if I invited Sherlock?”  
  
    Greg turned again, “Yeah I don’t see why not, James’s bringing Sally and I think Mike was planning on asking Haley, so you, me and Sherlock can be the single guys of the group,” Greg smiled and John laughed, a little too forcefully.  Greg turned away and headed out into the hallway.  While it didn’t feel ideal, John felt lightened at the prospects.  
  
    They met everyone outside of the theater that evening.  Sherlock was already there, standing slightly away from Mike, Haley, James, and Sally, and brightened when he spotted John and Greg approaching.      
  
    “Hey guys,” Greg said enthusiastically.  
  
    “Everyone, this is Haley,” Mike introduced the girl they’d all come to know as Mike’s crush.  They greeted her, introduced themselves, then headed into the theater.  Sherlock drew back to John’s side at the end of the group.    
  
    “Hi,” he said softly, eyes ahead.  
  
    “Hey,” John grinned.  Sherlock had his hands in his coat pockets and John was thinking how he wanted nothing more than to slip his hand in there as well.  He refrained, however.  Everyone bought their tickets and they made their way into theater 3, laughing loudly, their conversations bouncing off one another’s.  John managed to maneuver things so that he sat next to Sherlock, with Greg on his other side.    
  
   _This feels right._    
  
    After the lights dimmed and a couple of trailers played, the movie began.  John saw two built men discussing something on the screen, but his thoughts were distracted by the heat of Sherlock’s arm on the armrest between them.  His pale hand was visible, hanging limply over the edge of the rest.  John’s hands clenched nervously on his thighs.  He looked back at the screen, some people were fighting, but they all looked the same and he wasn’t sure who were the good guys and who weren’t.  He noticed Sherlock’s fingers twitch.    
  
    His concentration on the movie became lost within his thoughts of the one day after school he’d managed to spend at Sherlock’s that week.  Those long fingers had wrapped around him again, under the discretion of a blanket on Sherlock’s bed and the closed door to his room.         
        
    “You’re certainly eager,” John smirked after they’d both kicked off their pants.  Sherlock was straddling John’s hips, his mused hair in his eyes, his pink lips hovering over John’s.      
  
    “I’ve been missing out with you,” Sherlock half-smiled, looking somewhat embarrassed.  Then Sherlock started moving against him, rocking back and forth.  John closed his eyes and arched his back.  _God_ , did he want it.  Then Sherlock’s hand was down the front of his boxers and it was moving with expert knowledge as if he’d memorized exactly what had made John come so quickly before, and, John realized, that was probably exactly what he’d done.  His head spun, dizzy with pleasure.   
   
    “Oh, ah, Sherlock,” John gasped, his head back against the pillow, his hands gripping the sheets.  John opened his eyes just enough to see Sherlock over him, his face so handsome, his bright eyes trained on John, a hungry, yearning look on his face as he watched John bite his lip, squeeze his eyes shut again.  
  
    John crossed his legs uncomfortably in the movie theater.   
   
     _Really the wrong time to be thinking about that._   
  
    He realized Sherlock had dropped his hand from the armrest, and felt slightly disappointed.  But just then, he felt something brush along the back of his hand on the seat beside his leg.  He jumped a little and looked down only to see Sherlock’s hand pressing lightly against him.  John glanced to his right, but everyone else’s eyes were trained on the screen.  He slipped his fingers between Sherlock’s and squeezed briefly.  Sherlock squeezed back.  John felt elated, and continually pushed back against the part of him that kept whispering _'you’re going to get caught,_ ' in his ear.  For a moment, he just took in the happy feeling of being here with Sherlock.  Their first date.  Was this it?  He continued to think of it that way, anyhow, until the movie’s end.    
  
    Just as the credits began to scroll up the screen, John heard Greg cough loudly beside him and he and Sherlock jumped apart, Sherlock’s hand slipping away back into his coat pocket.  He didn’t look at anyone else, especially not Greg, as they made their way out of the theater, muttering their critiques of the movie to one another.    
  
    He felt hot around his collar.  
  
    As Mike and Haley said goodbye to everyone and James kissed Sally goodbye, John turned to Sherlock.  
  
    “See you tomorrow?”  
  
    Sherlock’s half-smile was back on his face and he nodded, once.    
  
    “Bye,” Sherlock said, waving to everyone else and walking off.  When John turned around, Greg was looking from him to Sherlock’s receding figure.  John looked away, afraid of meeting his gaze.          
   
    Greg made light conversation on the ride back to his house, trying to engage John in talk of the movie, but since John had spent most of it thinking of other things, he wasn’t very responsive.  He was relieved when they reached Greg’s house and he hadn’t said anything about Sherlock.  He went right upstairs without a word to take a shower and get ready for bed, adrenalin finally beginning to leave his system.  But the nerves were still there, turning his stomach over and over again.  
  
     _Should’ve stayed home, said a tiny voice in his head._  
  
 _Wasn’t worth the risk, was it?  All this added stress..._  
  
    John nervously pushed the voice aside.     
     
  
    Greg was out of the house, meeting with Mike to go over a video project for their history class, and his Mom was shopping.  It was Saturday and while John knew he should really get going on learning this Chemistry chapter for his test on Monday, he was having difficulty concentrating.     
  
      He pushed Sherlock back away from him for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon, their lips parting with a wet pop.    
  
    “No, I need to learn this Sherlock,” John reasoned, pulling his textbook back into his lap.  They were sitting side by side on the downstairs sofa in the living room, notebooks full of Chemistry notes sitting on the coffee table in front of them.  
  
    “But it’s the weekend,” Sherlock whined, “And I already know all of this stuff.”  
  
    “Yes, which means it’s your job to help me now,” John noted determinedly, opening the textbook and staring blankly at the page of numbers and lines.    
  
    “What about this one?” he pointed to a problem on the page.  Sherlock sighed, sounding annoyed, which made John grin, and he started to work it out on one of the blank pages in the notebook.  John began with watching his pencil move over the paper, but then his eyes kept flicking to Sherlock’s profile, his dark hair curling around his ear, messy from John’s fingers running through it.  Sherlock’s brow was furrowed, his chin propped up by his other hand.  John was hit, once again, with just how handsome Sherlock was.  He moved closer to him on the couch under the guise of watching him work.  He inconspicuously placed his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock took no notice, or anyhow didn’t react at all.  John pushed back some of his curls and pressed his lips to his neck.  Sherlock’s body immediately tensed.    
  
    “I thought you said we have to work,” Sherlock shot at him.    
  
    “Yeah, we do, but...,” he nudged Sherlock’s neck with his nose, kissing it again, placing his hand on the other side of Sherlock’s jaw to pull him closer.  Sherlock turned his head and met John’s lips.  They sat, moving their mouths softly against one another’s, then Sherlock slowly pushed John down onto his back.  He placed his legs on either side of John’s hips, pressing him into the couch, their lips never leaving one another’s.  John curved his back upward, moaning softly.    
  
    “We could...go upstairs,” he muttered into Sherlock’s mouth.   
   
    Suddenly, they heard the front door open.  
    
    “Shit,” John said without thinking, pushing Sherlock up.      
        
    “Er–hey guys,” John whipped his head around and saw Greg closing the front door behind him, his eyes shifting rapidly between them.  Sherlock scrambled to get the rest of the way off of John.  _How much did he see?_  
  
    “H-hey,” John said, lifting himself on his elbows in an attempt to act like he’d just been lounging on the couch.  Sherlock sat straight-backed against the middle cushion, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap.  
  
    “Ah, you, doing homework?” Greg glanced shiftily around the open living room.  
  
    “Yup, yup we are,” said John, motioning to the nearest notebook on the coffee table, trying to smile, act nonchalant.    
  
    “Cool,” said Greg, a little too loudly.  John looked back at his notebook in an attempt to distance himself, potentially ending the conversation.   
   
    Greg took one more look at them then, without a word, started upstairs.    
  
    When they heard his footsteps on the ceiling above them, John exhaled a long breath.    
  
    “Shit,” he said again, sitting up and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes.  
  
    “It’ll be alright,” Sherlock insisted.  
  
    “But does he know?” John wondered in a loud whisper, his voice breaking.  His eyes were large and round as he moved his hands away to regard Sherlock.  Sherlock met his gaze.  
  
    “Yes,” he peered over at the stairs, “but you could go talk to him.”  
  
    John bit his lip, feeling nauseous and afraid.     
  
    “Go talk to him,” Sherlock urged in an undertone, starting to put away his notes into his backpack.  
  
    “Alright,” John agreed, his stomach churning over and over again.      
  
    Sherlock placed a hand on the back of his neck.  He leaned over and gently kissed the top of John’s head.    
  
  
    John took several deep breaths to compose himself then wandered upstairs, first grabbing his textbook, and attempting to act normal.  He came into Greg’s room where Greg was sitting at his desk in front of a computer.  
  
    John cleared his throat to announce his entrance.    
  
    “You doing homework too?” he asked, motioning to the computer.  
  
    Greg stopped typing and peered over his shoulder.    
  
    “Uh, no,” was all he said.  
  
    “Oh, okay,” John could feel the awkwardness creeping into their space now.  He put his book down on the bed, unsure of what to say next.     
      
  
    “John,” Greg started rather abruptly, turning fully around in his chair, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be frank, but what did I just walk in on?”  
  
    “Oh, ah,” John couldn’t meet his fixed stare, “it’s...”     
  
    “I’m your friend, you should be able to tell me things,” Greg said, his voice softer.  
  
   _He knows._   He wasn’t asking because he was confused, he already knew, he just wanted John to confirm it.  
  
    “Are you and Sherlock, like...,” he seemed to be looking for the right word, the proper definition for their horizontal touching on his couch, “gay?”  
  
    John put his head in one of his hands, rubbing his forehead, “ah, jeez,” he muttered.    
  
   _Fuck._               
  
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume, if that’s not what it was–,”  
  
    “No, no, it’s ok, we were just, uhm,” but the lies were slipping through his brain like cupped water between his fingers.  _Sherlock just fell on me, or uh, we were practicing for a class performance, or maybe we just really wanted to get off with one another._  
  
    “W-what you saw, was, well, yeah we’re uh,” his voice shook, his vision swam, “together...?” he finally breathed.  He just stared at his feet, ears blazing hot with embarrassment.  There, he’d said it.  He’d told one of his best friends.  _Shit._  
  
     _Oh my god what have I done?_    
  
    “Oh,” was all Greg said.    
  
    He heard him turn back to his computer and start typing again.  John stood there, motionless for another minute, just listening, listening to his heavy breaths, listening to the typing, typing, typing, what had he just _done_?   
  
    It wasn’t like telling Harry.  There was no expectation for a warm welcome.     
  
    Finally, he left the room, not sure whether he felt like he wanted to punch someone or cry.  
  
    “Let’s go,” he said flatly when he reached the bottom of the stairs.  He didn’t even grab his coat, just started out the front door, Sherlock behind him.  
  
  
    John pressed Sherlock to the bed, their pants already thrown to the side.  His parents were out for the afternoon.      
  
    “You should...,” Sherlock inched up John’s t-shirt over his stomach.  
  
    “O-okay,” John sat up, his thighs straddling Sherlock’s pelvis, pressing hard into each other.  He grabbed the ends of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, then laid it aside.  Sherlock watched him, a flush creeping into his cheeks.  He trailed his fingers along John’s chest, sending goosebumps erupting over his skin.  He’d never been so bare in front of him.  There’d always been covers, blankets, usually clothing between them.  Self conscious, he redirected his attention to Sherlock.  His fingers began unbuttoning the gray collared shirt.  He felt Sherlock’s breathing quicken under his hands.    
  
    “John,” he muttered, but didn’t follow it with anything.  His eyes looked up from underneath his mess of hair.  John’s breath caught in his throat.  Sherlock’s eyes, their green-blue sheen flickered between his slow blinks.  John abandoned trying to take off Sherlock’s shirt and inclined his head to kiss him.  Sherlock propped himself on his elbows and pushed back with his mouth.  John swept his lips down to his throat and heard Sherlock swiftly inhale and push back against him.  Sherlock’s sounds easily got to John.  
  
    His lips continued down over his bare chest, through the trail of little hairs over Sherlock’s stomach, until he reached his waistband.  
  
    He lifted his gaze just enough to see Sherlock looked down at him with glazed eyes, his lips parted.  
  
    “Want me to–?”  
  
    Sherlock just nodded.    
  
    John took a deep breath, then slipped down his underwear.  He heard Sherlock inhale sharply.  John had imagined this, Sherlock laid out in front of him, naked except for his opened shirt, his head back on the pillow, waiting for him.    
   
    Finally, John took him in his mouth.  Sherlock, whose whole body had been tense, let out a long moan that was almost a whimper and melted, relaxing into the heat and wetness of John’s mouth.  
  
    “O-oh,” he let out as John moved up and down, letting his tongue slide around the tip.      
  
    He was pleased that Sherlock had received him so well, unsure of his technique, as he’d never done this before.  But Sherlock continued his moaning, gripping the sheets hard with one hand, his other hand held lightly on the back of John’s head, fingers through his hair.      
  
    “John...,” he panted, “It’s–it’s too...too much, I’m going to...”  
  
    Warm fluid suddenly spilled over John’s tongue and he almost jerked back in surprise, but kept his place, patiently.   He pulled his head up once he was sure Sherlock was finished, then swallowed hard.  It actually wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.    Then again, it was Sherlock.  
  
    Sherlock didn’t move, just panted in place.  
    
    “Good?” John asked, smiling a little, wiping his chin and sitting back on his haunches.  
  
    “More than...,” Sherlock slurred, rolling his head back and forth on his neck, his eyes closed, “I never thought...committing to these feelings.”  
  
    “Hm?” John prompted.  
  
    “I never thought I’d let myself commit to the feelings of wanting to be intimate with someone,” he opened his eyes again and lifted his head, “just like I didn’t think I’d let myself commit to the feelings I had for you.”   
  
    John looked down, a sinking feeling filing his stomach.    
  
    “Well why did you then?”  He hadn’t put much thought into it before, why Sherlock had given in.  
  
    His arousal had dissipated.   
  
    Sherlock was pulling his briefs up and sitting up, his eyes fixed on John’s face.  
  
    “I don’t know,” was all he said.  John felt sick.  He looked down, playing with a string on Sherlock’s comforter.  He was going through all this trouble with Greg, everything always hurt whenever he wasn’t with Sherlock, but what was Sherlock’s even reason for staying?  The sex?  John’s frown grew, his gut turned over.    
  
    The downward spiral from one thought to the next had begun, and it seemed relentless.      
  
    “John?”  
  
    He wouldn’t look up.  He felt tears in his eyes and hated himself for it.    
  
     _Sherlock wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t understand._  
  
    A small, nasty voice in his head pressed on further.    
  
   _He doesn’t get all this friends and feelings shit._  
  
    But John knew that wasn’t completely true, but the other little voice kept on.   
  
    Bitterness filled his mouth, but he wouldn’t speak.  What was all of this?  Their relationship...it was painful, he had to admit.      
  
    He felt a hand on his shoulders.  Sherlock sat in front of him, cross-legged.  
  
    “John, look at me.”  
  
    “No,” John mumbled.  He heard Sherlock’s frustrated exhale of breath.  
  
    “Am I only here to solve your boredom?” John asked suddenly, lifting his head, frowning.  
  
    “What?  No, of course not,” Sherlock answered quickly, looking concerned.  
    
    John pursed his lips, looked down again.    
  
    “Well you gave up the drugs, and maybe I was the next thing to come along, to, to keep you from being bored,” John scowled and clenched his jaw.    
  
    “John, I don’t know how to convince you otherwise, you seem to be projecting being distraught over Greg into our relationship, but please believe that you are not a distraction, you’re my focus.”  Their eyes met, Sherlock’s shining once again.  
    
    “Ok,” John said, believing him.  But the knot in his gut was not relieved.    
  
  
    He and Greg didn’t speak all Sunday.  John came back to the house later Saturday night after time spent at Sherlock’s, trying to clear his head.  But then Monday morning came, and things only got worse.  
  
    John sat waiting for the first bell to ring in his Psychology class.  His eyelids hung half closed, staring unseeingly at the chalkboard as students ambled in.  Sleep had evaded him the night before.  The teacher, Mr. Turner, sat at his desk reading a book.   
   
     James came in and as usual sat next to John.    
  
    “Hey John,” he said, taking out a binder and opening it on his desk.    
  
    John lifted a hand in greeting, his other fist propping up his head.   
   
    “So, uh, how’s Greg’s?”  
  
    Immediately John’s heart accelerated.  
  
     _Did Greg tell him?_  
  
 _Oh god, of course he did, right?  He wouldn’t keep something like this a secret, would he?_  
  
 _No, no it’s ok, he’s just asking because I’m staying there.  That’s all._    
  
    “Fine,” he nodded, pursing his lips, suddenly feeling much more aware and awake.    
  
    “Um,” James started again, his voice lower, and John’s heart sank further, “Greg told me, ah,” he leaned closer and looked nervously to the left and right to make sure no one around was listening.  Most of the other students were deep in their own conversations or else fighting sleep and losing.  
  
    “Yes?” John pressed, his voice harsh.  This was familiar again: anger.   
   
    “What’s up with you and Sherlock?”  
  
    “What do you mean?” John snapped, his brow wrinkled in a scowl.  He wouldn’t say it.  He wasn’t ready for this, hadn’t prepared himself, he needed that time.      
  
    “Oh, well,” James pulled back, tapping his fingers on his desk, “I mean, Greg was just saying, you–.”  
  
    “Whatever _Greg_ told you isn’t important,” John growled, blood pumping furiously through his head.          
  
    “O-okay.”  
  
    Just at that moment, the bell rang, and Mr. Turner stood up to take the attendance.  John and James didn’t speak for the remainder of the class.    
  
    He knew what his fear had done once before.  He remembered, quite clearly, that this fear of being found out, of being different and mocked and humiliated and bullied had nearly driven him and Sherlock apart.  He couldn’t let it happen again.  
  
    John sat on the edge of his air mattress, re-reading the same paragraph of _Heart of Darkness_ for the tenth time, when he finally heard Greg come home.  John waited, his adrenalin rushing forward as he listened to Greg’s footfalls on the stairs.  
  
    “Oh...John,” Greg sounded startled when he entered the room.  John couldn’t wait for formalities.    
  
    He stood up and spat, “Why’d you have to go and tell James, huh?”    
  
    Greg’s eyes widened at this sudden attack.  
  
    “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want anyone else to know?” John knew he was shouting but he no longer felt the control he normally did, “this is _private_ , and it’s _dangerous_ , some people don’t take kindly to these things,” _maybe you don’t take kindly to it either,_ he almost said.     
  
    “But not _James_ ,” Greg protested, his face pale as he watched John, as he tried to reason.    
  
    “But he could tell the wrong person and it could spread around the whole school and I just, I don’t want people to know yet, it’s, it’s _terrifying_ ,” and it felt good to say it but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to feel the relief of the moment, “you know?  I mean, no you don’t, you couldn’t imagine, but I was so afraid of myself for so long and I finally came to terms with _me_ for the most part, and now it’s everyone else I’m up against.”  
  
    Greg took a deep breath.  John didn’t want to wait for his words, but then he started speaking.      
  
    “Look, I was just confused, I mean I still am,” Greg shrugged, and his gesture of indifference angered John even more, “it’s just that you’ve been out with girls before.”  
  
    “Yeah, and I liked those girls, a lot, but now I like Sherlock,” he needed Greg to see.  It was so simple.  He’s the same John, the same everything, just with a different person at his side.  Why couldn’t they see that?  
  
    “How long has it been going on?”  
  
    “Why does that matter?”  
  
    “I’m just wondering,” Greg put his hands up in defense, palms out toward John, “I’m sorry.”  His eyes swept over John, who was shaking with anger, who had tears blossoming in his eyes.  
  
    “Whatever,” John muttered furiously, pushing past him, his anger finally getting the better of him.  He had to leave, had to get out of there.  
  
    He saw the walls begin to crumble.  His urge to escape was immense, consuming.    
  
    Outside, the air was freezing, cutting through his sweatshirt.   
  
    He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts anymore, he was tired of them.  But he wanted nothing more than to just be left alone.       
  
    John watched the walls crumbling clearly, now.  Harry had held up, of course, but now his friends and their support was dissipating.  What was next?  His parents?  Then his acquaintances in school?  Because it would get around, he knew.  The judgement and hate would come.  He needed his friends, he’d had them for so long, god, he needed them.     
  
     _Please, don’t leave me._   
  
     Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of his house, the blue siding blending into the gray sky.    
  
     _Go in_ , a voice urged.    
  
    He could see himself walking up the front steps, taking out his key and sliding inside, going up the stairs, and curling up on his bed.  Then he’d sleep.  
      
    But he wouldn’t move.  There was a force field around the house, keeping him distant.  It would hurt more, he told himself, to go in than to stay out here.  His parents didn’t want him in there, not now while they tore down everything they’d made together.  
        
    He sat down on the steps and put his head in his hands, breathing heavily.  The cold brushing up against him was almost welcoming.    
  
      
    John wasn’t sure how long he sat there for, no one coming in or out of the house, but it was getting darker out and he knew his father would be home from work soon.  He wasn’t in the mood to face him.  He ambled to his feet and left, again.  
     
     _I’ve been leaving a lot, recently.  Coming, going, never quite here nor there._    
  
     _Except when you’re with Sherlock._    
  
    He pushed his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.  Yes, his beacon of light.  Sherlock.  
  
  
    He opened the front door to Greg’s house, hoping they’d already eaten dinner and Greg would be out, or else somewhere in the house that didn’t require John to have to speak to him.  But he wasn’t so lucky.      
  
    “Been waiting for you,” came a voice as soon as John had closed the front door behind him and wiped his Chucks on the welcome mat.    
  
    Greg, Mike, Tom, and James sat on the couch, Mrs. Lestrade setting down a plate of snacks in front of them on the coffee table.    
  
    “You boys need anything else?” she asked, “I’ve got leftover mac and cheese, John,” she said, looking over her shoulder at John still standing near the front door.  
  
    “No thanks,” he muttered.    
  
    “Well just let me know,” she added, and bustled out of sight.  
       
    “Guys, I really don’t feel like...,” John started, feeling exhausted.  
      
    “No, we’re going to talk to you,” Greg stated, “sit,” he gestured to the space beside him on the couch.  John hesitated, then, at the insistent stares of his friends, he moved forward.      
  
    “We don’t care if you’re gay,” Mike blurted out.  James threw him an annoyed look.  
  
    “I’m not actually,” John sighed, sliding down into the couch, “I’m...bisexual.”  
  
    They exchanged looks, but John couldn’t tell what was hidden in them.  
  
    He took a deep breath and confessed, out right, “Yes,” he said to himself, “I’m bisexual and I’m dating Sherlock.”  
  
    A lull fell over them.  The hum from the refrigerator, the buzz from the television was all John could hear, as well as the constant ringing in his head.  John waited, tense as if he was ready to bolt from the room.  His head swum.  Sickness, again.  With so much fear mixed up in it.    
  
    “Well either way, we don’t care, we just want you back and happy,” James piped up.  
  
    John scowled, “What do you mean?”  
  
    “You’ve been distant,” Greg mentioned, “You cancel plans and run out on us and we can see how tired you are and you’re just not our John as of late.”   
  
    “Is it because of Sherlock?  Because you had to keep that from us?”  
  
    John felt his embarrassment rising.  He felt like he was on trial.  
  
    “No, there’s just, like, a lot of shit’s been going on at my house.”  
   
    “Why didn’t you talk to us about it?”  
  
    “I dunno, god, I just...couldn’t,” he stared at the other corner of the room, “but I could talk to Sherlock for some reason,” he shrugged, his voice lower now.    
  
    “Are you, uh,” Tom looked from Greg to Mike on the other side of John, “is that why you’re with Sherlock?  Because of the stuff with your parents?”  
  
    John frowned, “What do you mean?”  
  
    “Well, I–,” Tom still wasn’t meeting John’s eye.  He saw Greg shake his head from the corner of his eye, “No, John likes Sherlock because he just does.”  
  
    John nodded, tiredly.  He felt annoyed that he was being asked to justify his attraction.  And his annoyance began to feed into his anger.       
  
    “He was the right person at the right time,” John whispered, “but I wasn’t ready to tell anyone, it’s still new and I’m just afraid.”    
  
    He hoped that would get to them.    
  
    “You know we’ve got your back if anyone ever tried to hurt you,” Mike said, gruffly.  John half-smiled and muttered, “thanks,” even though the sentiment wasn’t exactly ideal.  
  
    “Why didn’t you tell us sooner, though?” James asked, sounding sympathetic, almost hurt.  
  
    John felt angry at the question, “For the same reason why queer kids don’t come out to their parents automatically, it’s scary and I had no idea how you guys would react.”  Why weren’t they seeing that?    
  
    “But you had to have known we wouldn’t care,” James continued, a frown on his pale face.  
    
    “I–,” John sighed, “I just couldn’t take the chance, I’d rather things be the same and normal than for me to throw a wrench into the works and hope things turned out okay.”  
  
   _Why weren’t they seeing it?  How frightening it is?  How life altering?_  
  
    “But, god, John, you’re our best friend...” Greg began.  
  
    “And best friends can turn, Harry lost friends when she came out, and I mean, kids get killed for stuff like this all the time,” John cut in.  
  
    “But we’re here now, and we’re not leaving, it doesn’t matter why you didn’t tell us before, now you know that we won’t up and go just because of this,” James motioned with his hands at all of them.       
  
    John looked at him.  James’s face was full of concern, all of their faces were.    
  
    He thought he finally understood.  The reason they weren’t getting it, the reason they couldn’t comprehend why he’d kept it a secret, was because it would never have been an issue.     
  
    “I don’t want things to be weird, I’m no different, I’ve just got a different person in my life, you know?” he looked, hopefully at each of them separately.  
  
    “Of course,” said Greg softly, putting a comforting hand on John’s shoulder.  
  
    Silence fell, not exactly awkward, but not comfortable either.      
  
    “Ok,” John said, softly.    
  
    “Well,” Mike clapped his hands together, pulling them out of their respective thoughts, “now that everything’s out in the open,” he took a deep breath, “So have you guys fucked?”  
  
    John’s mouth opened in an ‘O’ as the raucous laugher grew within each of them.  He shoved Mike away, their faces mirroring one another’s in smiles of delighted laughter, John’s face growing red.  And the tension was broken.  
  
    “Oh my god, they totally have, look at his face,” Mike shrieked.    
  
    “Shut the hell up, we have not,” John laughed.     
       
    The laughter continued until they were out of breath and falling down all over each other.           
  
    Maybe this was comfortable.  Maybe he could get used to this, get used to people being okay with him.  


	9. Chapter 9

    Back, again.  
   
    John stared at the refrigerator over his breakfast of rapidly cooling oatmeal.    
  
    The picture was gone.  The picture of him and Harry in front of the Eiffel Tower when they were five and six years old.  He didn’t particularly remember the trip, but he’d always been fond of the picture.  Harry said it reminded her of once being fabulous and the idea had stuck, and continued to make him laugh.    
  
    But now it was gone, with about half of the other pictures in the house, half of the books, half the furniture.  Everything felt lopsided.    
  
    “How’s the oatmeal?” John’s mom asked, sitting across the table from him.    
  
    “Uh, good, thanks,” he lifted his spoon.  It had been a month of this.    
  
    “Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Harry said, stirring her cereal.  A month of half empty rooms, cold breakfast, and their mother’s desperation to fulfill them.     
      
    John couldn’t remember the last time they ate breakfast together, as a family.  Minus one, now.  
  
    Their father was an in apartment across town that they visited during the weekends, when they were free.  The arrangement wasn’t set in stone.    
  
    Their mom still hadn’t managed to procure a job.  _“A degree in English doesn’t get you much these days!”_ she kept saying, but John was beginning to wonder if she was actually trying.  Her last job had been as a medical transcriptionist, but when the company went bankrupt last year, she hadn’t been able to find anything since.  Would the divorce papers be the final thing to make her realize she had to do _something_ to support them?  As soon as those papers were signed, the bank account was cut off, or split, John didn’t know what they were agreeing to.  As if they could agree on anything anymore.          
  
    “Well, we’ll be going now,” Harry said loudly, sliding her bowl off the table and taking it to the sink.  John followed suit.    
  
    They left and started the short walk to school, just as the sun was peaking out from behind the clouds.  
  
  
    When the bell rang for the junior and seniors’ lunch, John noticed Sherlock waiting just outside the doors as soon as he neared the cafeteria.    
  
    Sherlock greeted John with a swift nod when he was close enough.  
  
    “Hi,” John smiled, trying not to look too eager in case anyone passing noticed.    
  
    “Hey guys,” Mike passed them, eyes half closed with bags under his eyes, and raised a hand to lazily pat Sherlock on the shoulder.    
  
    “Hello Mike,” Sherlock responded.  When Mike had passed Sherlock said, “I see his new girlfriend is keeping him up late.”  
  
    “Yeah, his grades won’t appreciate it,” John chuckled.  After the interrogation he’d received from his friends, they’d been overtly talkative to Sherlock; saying hi to him in the halls, inviting him along with them to their nights out.  Sherlock wasn’t completely sure how to take it all, but John was pleased, if not a little embarrassed on their part.  
   
    Sherlock eyed John who was suddenly pressed closer by the crowd pushing past.  
  
    “Hey John,” John turned at Tom’s voice.    
  
    “Hey,” he nodded at him as he passed.  Tom glanced at Sherlock, but didn’t say anything.  Sherlock looked down, then back to John.      
  
    “Want to get out of here?”  
  
    “What for?” John questioned, unconsciously clutching Sherlock’s sleeve as someone elbowed him aside and looking forlornly at the tables of students eating, “I’m starving.”  
  
    “We can get food,” he offered, “my treat even.”  John noticed something different in his voice, but it was faint.  
  
    “Well,” John started, looking over his shoulder once more and lowering his voice, “alright.”      
  
    They slipped away without so much as a glance their way from anyone else.  
   
    They reached the edge of the school grounds without being stopped.  It was lucky for them, John thought, that seniors were allowed to leave for lunch, but more lucky that no one checked who was a senior and who wasn’t.      
  
    It was difficult not taking Sherlock’s hand as they walked side by side to the local sandwich shop they’d decided on.    
  
    “Stick your hands in your pockets, it makes it easier,” Sherlock muttered out of the side of his mouth as they passed a young woman pushing a stroller.  John grinned to himself.  _He always knows._    
  
    The smell of fresh bread engulfed them instantly as they stepped into the sandwich place.  The woman behind the small counter, a girl who looked to be around college aged with dark curled hair pulled back into a ponytail, a pale, pointed face, and small lips, put on a pretty smile and called, “Welcome!  How may I help you?”  
   
    “Uhhh,” John stepped forward, reading over the menu above her head, “how about the veggie, no onions, please?”  
  
    “That’s my favorite,” she grinned and winked at him, inputting his order into the register next to her, “Have you tried the one with green peppers and fake sausage?” she asked, “it’s fantastic.”  
  
    “Oh, no, I haven’t,” John felt his face flush and kept his eyes on the counter.    
  
    “Try it the next time you come in,” she said, and he looked up to see her smiling.  He heard Sherlock exhale, annoyed, next to him.    
  
    “What do you want?” she turned to Sherlock.  
  
    “Nothing,” he said shortly and handed her some money.  
  
    “You don’t want anything?” John prompted, surprised.    
  
    Sherlock shook his head, his eyes narrowed as the women doled out his change into his hand.  
  
    “And I’d suggest you not flirt with high school boys when you’ve got a kid at home, I assure you he doesn’t want to be your child’s new father,” Sherlock commented, his eyes sweeping over her.    
  
    “Sherlock!” John yelped.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and they turned away from the shocked and embarrassed face of the woman.    
  
    “What’d you do that for?  She wasn’t flirting with me,” John muttered through clenched teeth.  
  
    “Oh come on, John, of course she was,” he responded, taking a seat at one of the tables.  John sat across from him.  
  
    “You didn’t have to do that, you could’ve just left it alone,” he hissed, annoyance edging his voice, feeling embarrassed for the sake of the woman.    
  
    Sherlock’s face fell into a sulky frown and his shoulders slumped downward.  John had never seen him act out in jealousy.  It was almost...cute.  He had to keep himself from giggling as Sherlock continued to refuse to look at him.     
          
  
    Not long after they sat down, another employee brought out John’s sandwich.  He thanked him and began eating.        
      
    “John, I think it’s time we discuss...taking things further, that is to say, when we’re together.”  John looked up, eyebrows raised, a bite of sandwich half sticking out of his mouth.  He gave him his usual, ‘Sherlock, explain yourself’ look, and Sherlock sighed huffily then continued, “I think we should sleep together.”  
  
    John almost choked and had to put his sandwich down.  
  
    “Do we have to talk about this here?” he pleaded, looking nervously at the counter, then over his shoulder where an elderly couple were sitting.  
  
    “Why not?  There’s no one we know here,” he reasoned, looking around as well.    
  
    “No, but,” John sighed, “it’s kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?”  
  
    Sherlock frowned, looking confused, “We’ve done things that would usually lead up to–.”  
  
    “Stop,” John interrupted, putting up a finger between them.  
   
    Sherlock exhaled, rolling his eyes, “Well, I think we should discuss the possibility of it anyhow.  Have you had sex before?  I don’t think we’ve ever talked about that...probably a bit irresponsible of us, really, damn sex education system...”  
  
    John’s mouth hung open as he watched Sherlock have a one-sided conversation about the sex education in their school.    
  
    Finally he stopped speaking and said, “So, have you?”  
  
    “No, I haven’t,” John looked down, nibbling at the bread of his sandwich.  
  
    “Other than me, you’ve never been intimate with anyone?”  He seemed a bit surprised.  
  
    “I mean,” John swallowed, his stomach churning, “I’ve done...” but he thought better of going into detail.  
  
    “Won’t you be jealous?” he wondered suddenly.    
  
    Sherlock considered him for a second then said, “No,” and looked sideways, out the window they were sitting beside.  John glanced over at the girl behind the counter and couldn’t help but grin slightly, even though he felt bad about doing so, “You are, aren’t you?”      
  
    “Well how would you feel if a girl was hitting on me?”  
  
    “I wouldn’t care because I know you wouldn’t be attracted to her,” John laughed.  
  
    “Well,” Sherlock frowned, “what if it was a guy?”  
  
    John just raised his eyebrows.    
  
    Sherlock was starting to get very flustered, John could tell by the way he fidgeted in his seat and kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, “Oh, hell.”  
  
    “Look,” John leaned closer over the table, his voice nearly a whisper, “I’ve done...the kind of stuff we’ve done before.”  
  
    “Like what?” Sherlock was suddenly stiff.    
  
    John pinched the bridge of his nose, collecting himself, “Well,” he was attempting to decipher the right words to use without sounding indecent.  He thought back to Sarah, his first girlfriend when he was fifteen.  He didn’t understand the different “bases” when referring to sexual achievements, but they’d gotten about as far as his hands under her shirt.  Then there was Jeanette, who didn’t last long, but he’d gone further with her than anyone which included finding his head between her thighs, and vice versa for her.  There had been others, but he’d never gotten any further than general fooling around when their parents were out of the house.  
  
    “You know,” his voice was barely audible between him and Sherlock, “what we’ve done, hand and er, mouth...stuff.”  
  
    “Mouth stuff?” Sherlock repeated, dubiously.    
  
    John rolled his eyes, “Why does it even matter?”  
  
    “I’m only wondering,” Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and glaring out the window.    
  
    “You’re jealous, right?” he suddenly became worried.  Sherlock just scowled further and didn’t answer.    
  
    “I was trying to avoid that you know, but you just kept pushing,” he watched Sherlock huff annoyed.    
  
    “Back to what I was saying though, I think we should slee–,” John reached across the table and put his fingers over Sherlock’s mouth to quiet him.    
  
    Sherlock scowled as he withdrew his hand, once he knew Sherlock wasn’t going to continue.  
  
    “I want to, too,” John said quietly, “but I’m really nervous about it.”  He looked down, biting his bottom lip.  He’d thought about it.  _God_ had he thought about it.  What it would feel like, what it would sound like, what it would taste like.  What everything would be when they finally went _all the way_.  But his nervousness outweighed his want.  What if he was no good at it?  More so, what if he didn’t know what he was doing?  He’d much rather wait.  Well, he thought he would, anyhow.    
  
    Sherlock considered him, then nodded once and said, “Well I bought supplies for when the time comes, but I certainly don’t mind continuing what we’ve been doing,” he said, placing his elbows on the table and his fingers beneath his chin.  He seemed sincere enough, so John smiled.  Sherlock, seeming a little surprised, smiled back.  John finished his sandwich, checked again to make sure Sherlock didn’t want something, then they left.  
  
    “Man, I really don’t want to go back,” John stretched out into the late morning sun.  
  
    “We don’t have to you know,” Sherlock mentioned as they began walking.  
  
    “Any suggestions?”  
  
    John saw Sherlock smirk from the corner of his eye.     
         
                 
    As soon as they were through the door to Sherlock’s house, he was pressing John to the wall of the entryway, their mouths over one another’s in an instant.  
   
    “Mmph, Sherlock,” John said out of the corner of his pressed lips.  Something was different, Sherlock’s eagerness had become apparent their last few times intimately together, but now he seemed strained, needing, almost aggressive about it.  
  
    John pulled back, putting a hand against Sherlock’s chest to keep him distanced, “What’s wrong?”  
  
    “What?  Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock tried to assure him, looking frustrated.  
  
    “You’re not the only one who can deduce stuff about people, what’s up?” John implored, staring intently into his face.  _I know you._    
  
    After a moment of intense looks, Sherlock’s scowl finally dissolved, transforming into a look of dejection, his eyes wide and pitiful.  
  
    “Tom, he–,” Sherlock’s face became stony.    
  
    “What?  What’d he do?”  John’s tone changed immediately.    
  
    “He came up to me yesterday when I was walking home and was saying a lot about...about you and how he was really surprised when you came out to them all, you know your friends, and how he’d thought you were doing it just to, to get back at your parents...or something,”  Sherlock looked frustrated again and wouldn’t meet John’s eyes.  
  
    “Sherlock,” John said softly,“You know that’s not true,” John asserted, his voice firm.  
  
    Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose.  
  
    “I don’t like this,” he said flatly.  
  
    “What?” John’s voice had turned into a whimper.  His heart began to speed up.  
  
   _Is he having second thoughts about us?_  
  
    “I don’t like all these feelings, jealousy, worry, love...”  
  
    “Love?” John almost choked on the word.  
  
    Sherlock didn’t seem to recognize what he’d just said, “...and it’s so frustrating, but I can’t stop now and...what’s wrong?”    
  
    John’s face was pale, his eyes wide and staring as Sherlock regarded him with a disgruntled look on his face.    
  
    “You just said...love?”  
  
    Sherlock’s gaze became unfocused as if he was thinking back, then suddenly, realization hit him.  
  
    “O-oh,” was all he said, his eyes shifting back and forth, “Um.”  
  
     “I love you,” John blurted out, unable to take the apprehension or the silence any longer.    
  
    Oh no.  
  
    He’d known it was a possibility, falling in love.  But this was a mistake: telling Sherlock he loved him in the entry way to his house when he hadn’t even thought about it.      
  
     _No, this isn’t how these things are supposed to go, they’re supposed to be thought about, considered, romantic, right?_  
  
    Did he even love Sherlock?  Was he telling the truth?  
  
    And now Sherlock was staring at him, his mouth hanging open in shock.  It was the exact face he’d made when John had kissed him that one night, so long ago.    
  
    “Uh,” John quickly cleared his throat and looked down, “sorry.”  He didn’t know what he was sorry for, but it felt like the right thing to say.  His brain was going haywire, thoughts flying by, but impossible to get a grasp on.    
  
    “I–,” came a small voice from Sherlock, “I–I don’t think I know what that means...yet,” he confessed, eyes completely on John’s face again.    
  
     _The one thing that Sherlock doesn’t know..._      
      
    “Ok,” John said softly, nodding a bit too forcefully, “yeah, alright.”      
            
    “John,” Sherlock began.  
  
    “No, no, it’s fine, really, we should be getting back though,” he didn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze, was afraid he’d see that John was fighting back tears.  He wasn’t even sure why: tears of frustration?  Tears of anger?  At himself?  At Sherlock?  Or was he so put out that Sherlock might not love him?  Even though he wasn’t sure about himself, it hurt more to think that Sherlock wasn’t sure about him.      
   
    “John,” Sherlock said again, “I would never want to tell you something that was untrue, but,” he took John’s wrist in his hand, “I’m not saying it’s not possible.”  
  
    “Right,” was all John could come up with to say.  Sherlock kissed him, but John wasn’t feeling very responsive.  
  
    They walked back to school in near silence.  But part-way there, John slipped an arm through the crook of Sherlock’s elbow.  He wanted things to be okay.  
          
  
    John didn’t see Tom anywhere at the end of the day.  In fact, he’d nearly forgotten he’d wanted to have a word with Tom.  The conversation that had followed after what Sherlock had told him had completely blown it out of his head.  Now it dwelled within him, alongside Sherlock’s aversion to say ‘i love you.’    
  
     _Why does Tom think I’d only do this to get back at my parents?_   _He doesn’t know my situation, he doesn’t know anything about me._   John’s thoughts turned angry as he continued home.  He was hoping for an empty house when he got there, but knew it wasn’t likely.  Sure enough, when he got inside, he heard movement coming from the kitchen.  
  
    “Mom?” he called.  There was no answer.    
  
    He went through the living room and into the kitchen to see his mom standing at the sink, clutching the side of the counter.    
  
    “Mom, what’s wrong?”    
  
    “John?” she looked up.  Her face was flushed, her hair in tangles hanging over her eyes.  As he stepped forward to take her arm, he smelled the distinct scent of alcohol on her breath.  
  
    “Sit down, come here,” he said softly and led her over to the kitchen table.  
  
    “Oh, John, you’re so good, a good son,” she mumbled as he pulled out a chair and sat her down.  Suddenly, she was crying, tears streaming seamlessly down her cheeks.  John hurriedly sat beside her, holding her hands.  
  
    “Mom,” he said softly, trying to sound comforting while fear invaded him, “what’s wrong?”  
  
    “I just...can’t...I need help,” she took her hands and buried her face into them.  
  
    “I’m here, I’ll help you, Mom,” he said, reaching forward again.  He’d thought things were better.  She’d seemed so much happier.  Yes, things felt different, of course, but...  
  
    “We just kept it going for so long because of you kids, but it, it was unbearable,” she cried softly between her hands, “we just couldn’t stand each other like we used to.”  
  
    “I know, Mom, you’re doing fine,” John said, watching and unable to think of anything else that would be reassuring to say.  For months, he’d wanted his parents to work things out.  Living under the same house, there was still that hope, but now things had gone so far, leaving a trail of unhappiness and pieces that felt as if they could never be put back together.  The idea that they could never be happy together had cemented itself, finally, into John’s mind.  He’d had to convince himself that yes, this was for the best, their separation was how things were supposed to go.    
  
    “Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake, I can’t find a job, I can’t...”  
  
    “While the ability to support yourself is important, currently a job isn’t nearly as pressing as your happiness,” came a deep voice from the doorway.  They both looked up.    
  
    Sherlock stood at the edge of the kitchen.  He strode over to the table and sat in the seat across from John.    
  
    John raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.  Sherlock wasn’t looking at him.  
  
    His mom had lowered her hands, “Sherlock,” she said, a smile crossing her lips.  
   
    “How good of you to come,” she murmured, “you’re right, you know, but I can’t only think of myself.”  
  
    “Mr. Watson won’t let you all starve before you can get on your feet,” Sherlock told her, “things will get better.”    
  
     _How’s he suddenly an expert?_  
  
    For the first time since he’d arrived, he glanced at John, then back to John’s mom, “We should get you to bed.”  Sherlock reached for her arm, and John stood to take her other one.  They got her to her feet, and held onto her all up the stairs and laid her into bed.  She curled into herself and closed her eyes on top of the blue blankets.  John just watched her for a moment, listening to her breathing turn heavy with sleep.  He felt Sherlock’s fingers curl into his.  He allowed him to pull him away from the bedside and slowly lead him down the hall to his own room.  
  
    Once inside, he leaned against the wall beside the door, feeling utterly defeated, exhausted, but he began to speak anyhow.        
  
    “The whole time after they’d decided on a divorce I thought maybe, just maybe they could work it out, then I finally realized it wasn’t going to happen and I accepted that, not matter how resentfully, and now it looks like it might not’ve even been the right choice?  I can’t deal with this anymore,” John felt his anger rising again.  It was almost like a new sensation again; he hadn’t felt it this strong in months.  He pushed the heel of his hands into his eyes until he saw pops of color, and attempted to focus on keeping his breathing under control.  
  
    “And what the hell was that?” he snapped, pulling his hands away to face Sherlock, standing in front of him, “since when’ve you been an expert at helping people out?  You don’t talk to anyone.”  Sherlock winced at his words, but John could hardly care right then.    
  
    “John, I know you’re–.”  
  
    “No,” John held out his hand again to stop him, “I’m not listening to this right now.”  He shook with uncontrollable anger and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to push it away.  
  
    But suddenly, there were arms around him.  
  
    He resisted, at first, unwilling to relax.  He didn’t want to relax, he wanted to lash out.  But Sherlock only tightened his hug, and finally John gave in.  Sherlock had always had a way with his anger.      
  
    “Sorry,” he murmured eventually into Sherlock’s shoulder.  He felt like he’d been saying that an awful lot lately.  Sherlock just kissed his ear, and a chill ran through him.  
  
    Eventually, Sherlock lead him over to the bed and they laid down.  The TV was turned on, and they just lay there spooning, Sherlock holding him around the middle.        
                
    Sherlock didn’t mention why he’d come over.  He didn’t mention anything about their earlier conversation at his house.  And John felt okay with that.     
   
    Right then, he knew he hadn’t lied to Sherlock when he’d told him he loved him.  
   
Their story had always been a love story, even from the beginning.  Looking back on it, their meeting, the way their friendship had grown.  It was supposed to be like this.  He turned over and brushed a kiss along Sherlock’s lips.  Sherlock lifted his head in response, but closed his eyes, finding John’s mouth with his and pressing into it.  
  
 _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far! I'm sorry this chapter took a bit longer to be put up here, I'm actually on vacation right now so I have to sneak some time in for this, haha.


	10. Chapter 10

    “Sherlock, you’re fidgeting,” John prodded as they approached the front door.  Sherlock harumphed and resorted to sticking his hands in his pants pockets.  
  
    They’d barely rung the doorbell when Mike appeared.  
  
    “Sherlock!” he bellowed, “great that you could make it this time.”  Sherlock shot him a smile in response and allowed himself to be pulled inside.  
  
    They followed Mike up to his room where James sat on the futon, already indulging in a slice of pizza.  It was Sherlock’s first pizza night with John’s friends, and John was only a little worried about how it would go.      
  
    “Hey John, hey Sherlock,” James greeted.  
  
    “Hey James,” John plopped down next to him, rubbing his eyes.  Lack of sleep from the night before was starting to catch up to him, but he’d promised to come this time.     
  
    “Who’s picking the movie tonight?” John asked as Sherlock took off his leather jacket, placed it on the back of the couch, and sat down next to him.    
  
    “Sherlock can do the honors if he’d like,” Mike said, opening the pizza box and taking a slice for himself.    
  
    “Well alright,” Sherlock stood up again and stepped over to the bookshelf.  
  
    “I dunno, Sherlock’s quite the pretentious movie-goer,” John snickered lazily.  Sherlock shot him a look over his shoulder and John stuck out his tongue.  James and Mike snorted.  
  
    “I simply have a more refined palette than you do,” Sherlock said as he glanced along the movie titles.  
  
    “Well there’s no way he’s as bad as Tom,” James countered.  
  
    “I don’t know about that, when we first...ah, started dating...” the words felt unusual in John’s mouth.  He hadn’t intended to bring attention to their relationship during this get together, in fact he hadn’t meant to at all, and Sherlock had noted before they’d arrived that they’d keep their touching and kissing out of this visit.  But he wasn’t met with any uncomfortable exchanged looks between Mike and James, no raised eyebrows.  The fact that he and Sherlock were a couple really didn’t appear to be a barrier in that moment.  
  
    “...um, yeah, he made me watch, oh jeez, what was it called again?” he asked Sherlock.  
  
    “John, I’m disappointed you can’t remember the name of _2001: A Space Odyssey_.”  
  
    Mike and James both groaned, and Mike said, “Tom made us watch that once but even _he_ hated it.”  
  
    “Fine, I guess from now on we’ll just stick with _Toy Story_ and _Up_.”  
  
    “You loved _Up_ ,” John retorted, a smile on his face.  
  
    “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s on the list of the greatest films ever made,” Sherlock’s voice conveyed that he’d rolled his eyes, and John snorted with laughter.  No matter how annoyed Sherlock sounded, John knew he was enjoying this, the socialization.   
   
    “Alright then,” Sherlock turned around with a DVD case between his fingers, “ _The Shining_ it is.” 

    John took the DVD case from his hands and looked it over, “Oh, Kubrick again.” 

   Sherlock settled down next to John again, arms crossed over his chest, “Yes, but there’s a lot more blood in this one.”  
  
    “Excellent,” said James.       
  
    “Well now I didn’t know we could bring our girlfriends,” came Tom’s voice from the doorway.  They all looked around, Sherlock’s face falling.      
  
    “What?” asked Greg as he came up the stairs behind him.  
  
    “Just joking,” Tom said over his shoulder.     
  
    Anger sparked in John’s fists as he watched Tom helping Greg place the soda and alcohol out on the table.  John hadn’t found the right moment to talk to Tom since Sherlock had told him what Tom said to him about their relationship being a vie for attention from his parents.  He felt awkward about confronting him, but felt more terrible at the idea of Tom’s comments continuing as if they were okay.        
  
    “Haven’t got much today, my old man caught me a couple weekends ago, grounded me for a week,” Tom said, eyeing the half empty bottle of scotch on the table.  
    
    “Ah, we need glasses,” Greg mentioned.  
  
    “On it,” Tom replied.  
  
    “I’ll help,” said John, getting to his feet.  He felt a tug on his sweater sleeve and glanced down at Sherlock, whose eyebrows were raised in a ‘do you know what you’re doing?‘ sort of look.  John sent him a quick nod, then pulled himself away to follow Tom downstairs and into the kitchen.    
  
    “So what’s up?” John asked, leaning against the counter, trying to keep his voice even and casual.  Tom opened up cabinet after cabinet until he found the glasses.  
    
    “Nothing much just–.”  
  
    “No, I mean what’s up with you making snarky remarks to Sherlock?”  
  
    “Getting all defensive again...”  
  
    “Yeah, I should, and what’s this about you telling Sherlock I’m only doing this to, what was it?  ‘Get back at my parents’?”  He hadn’t wanted his anger to rise up, but it had a knack of doing so without his consent.    
  
    “He told you, did he?”  
  
    “Wha?  Yeah, course he did.”  
  
    “Well, good,” Tom finally turned to face him, “good he told you, because yeah, that’s what I think,” he took a deep breath and continued, “it’s just weird, you know?  All of a sudden, when things start to get bad at home, you’re snogging guys, getting in fights, it just,” he paused, collecting himself, “it just seems like you want attention.”      
   
    John could feel himself getting upset, felt the lump growing in his throat.  He’d said it, hadn’t he?  That he didn’t want things to be weird, he’s still just John, their usual, regular John.  But he couldn’t get his voice to work enough to try and convince him.  
  
    “And...I dunno, are you guys gonna start kissing in front of us?  Because that’s just...weird and–.”  
  
    “James and Sally kiss in front of us all the time,” John managed, his face contorted with pain, “but no, we won’t, since it’ll make you so goddamn uncomfortable.”  
    
    He took the glasses off the counter and turned on his heel, heading back upstairs.  He was on edge, he knew it.  How could he ever convince anyone of his feelings for Sherlock?  It wasn’t like he could make a list of evidence and submit it for evaluation.    
  
     _Should’ve punched him_ , came a small voice in the back of his head.  But anger had dissipated as soon as Tom had stopped speaking.  Now, he only felt devastation.  Devastation that one of his best friends felt disgusted with him, looked down on him, belittled him.  When he reached Mike’s room, he immediately felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, but didn’t meet them.  He placed the cups down on the table as Mike was commenting, “I don’t think we’ve got enough room for everyone on the couch, John’ll have to sit on Sherlock’s lap,” he heard Mike and Greg snicker.  
  
    “Cut it out,” John said, trying to sound joking, but his smile faltered.  Only Sherlock seemed to notice.    
  
    “I don’t mind sitting on the floor,” Sherlock mentioned, sliding to the ground and leaning against the couch as John sat down.  He felt Sherlock’s shoulder press against his leg, almost like a comforting gesture, but as Tom appeared at the top of the stairs, John just wished that no one would touch him.  His eyes became unfocused on the floor in front of him as he listened absentmindedly to the useless conversation unfolding.  Hearing Tom’s voice brought up his adrenalin, but the small snippets that Sherlock expounded comforted him once more.  He noticed Mike pass Sherlock a cup, Greg put on the movie, and before he knew it, the pizza was gone, the drinks drunk up, a sleepy lull falling over their conversations.  He’d barely felt like paying attention to the movie.  
     
    “Movie’s brilliant,” he heard Sherlock mumbling, his words running together almost in a slur.  He leaned his head against John’s knees, his breathing turning heavy.  
    
    “He ever been drinking before?” Mike asked, nodding at Sherlock, “he barely had anything.”  John shook his head as if to rouse himself and answered, “Hm?  Oh, no idea.”  
  
    Mike chuckled, “ He’s a weird fellow, but somehow you guys still seem to go together really well.”  
  
    That lightened John’s heart for a moment before he heard the muffled snort come from across the couch.    
  
    “I’d better get him home,” John said dully, reaching down and lightly shaking Sherlock’s shoulder.  Once Sherlock was up, even if a bit wobbly on his feet, they said their goodbyes and left.  John held Sherlock around the small of his back, trying to keep him steady.  
  
    “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” John whispered once they were outside.  He wasn’t sure if Sherlock had heard him, and wasn’t sure he really cared, only that he’d needed to say it out loud.  But he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and looked over.    
  
    “Everything will be okay,” he said, drowsily.  He leaned down and kissed John, a little sloppily, on the lips.  John fell into it, not minding the lingering taste of alcohol, ignoring the street, the houses, everything else outside of them.  
         
    “Yeah.”  
\-------  
  
    Even without Harry’s soft snores coming from the floor beside the couch, John didn’t think he would’ve been able to fall asleep.  There was something cold about the hard leather of the couch and the nearly empty walls of his father’s new apartment. Thoughts trailed through his tired mind seamlessly instead.  
  
     _Hope I studied enough for the math test on Monday/shit, I hate when teachers do that, so your weekend’s all ruined/course I didn’t exactly spend the whole time studying/wonder what Harry’s gonna do about prom/she’ll get shit for bringing a girl_  
  
    John thought back on the conversation from dinner.  
  
    “So, what’s going on at school?” Dad had asked as the conversation had lulled since John had mentioned that the salad tasted...good.  
  
    “Junior prom is coming up,” Harry mentioned.  John had vaguely noticed the signs at school but hadn’t put much thought into it.      
  
    “Oh?  And are you going?”  
  
    “My girlfriend wants to, so probably,” Harry said.  Both John and their dad looked up, pausing their eating.  
  
    John was surprised; Harry hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend to him.  
  
    “Who?” John asked immediately.    
  
    “She doesn’t go to our school, we met through Janine, her name’s Irene.”    
  
    “Oh,” their dad had never quite learned how to react whenever Harry broached the subject of her less-than-heterosexual relationships.  
  
    “So, er, what’s this new girlfriend like?” John asked, filling the silence their dad had left behind.    
  
    “Well she’s not that new, we’ve been together about a month and a half,” she began.  
  
    “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” John muttered, then paused, realizing what he’d said and noticing Harry’s raised eyebrows, since his relationship with Sherlock had been kept from her for just about as long.      
  
     “What about you, John?” his dad turned to him.  
  
    “U-uh, what?  Sorry?”  
  
    “Have any girls you’ve got your eye on?”    
  
     Even though he wasn’t convinced it was true, it almost felt like his father needed reassurance of some kind of _normalcy_ in their life.  He needed the encouraging thought that his son was the child who’d turned out the way he’d expected.   
   
    John didn’t look at Harry; he knew she’d be trying to catch his eye.  This is what he’d given up, these normal conversations with his father.  Had the day come so quickly already when his dad would be unable to meet his eye and speak to him truthfully about his life and his relationship.    
  
    “Nope,” he said simply, pushing a forkful of salad into his mouth.  
  
  
    The phone buzzing in his bag pulled him out of his thoughts.  He scrambled to the other side of the couch and reached down, rummaging through the clothes in his backpack to reach his phone.  
  
    “Hello?”  
  
    “Want to meet up?” asked the husky voice on the other end.  
  
    “Sherlock, it’s one in the morning,” John whispered, but excitement flooded him all the same.    
  
    “Please, John, let’s not play this game,” Sherlock huffed, but John could hear the playfulness in his voice, “I’ve got something to show you.”  
  
    John’s stomach lurched nervously.  
  
    “Alright, you coming to pick me up?  I’m at my Dad’s remember.”  
  
    “I’m outside.”  
  
    John changed quickly out of his pajamas, grabbed his coat and crept out, listening to be sure Harry remained asleep until he was out of the apartment, closing and locking the front door quietly behind him.      
        
    Reaching the car idling by the curb, he excitedly got in.  Sherlock sat behind the wheel looking handsome and slightly ruffled and tired by the look of the shadows under his eyes and the odd curls sticking out of his hair.  But a smile spread across his lips as soon as John reached him.  
  
    “Hi,” John said, a little breathlessly.  Sherlock just kissed him over the center console.  He expected Sherlock to pull back after a moment, but when he didn’t, John allowed himself to fall further into the kiss, letting his fingers linger on Sherlock’s jaw.  Thoughts of their previous conversation flitted by.  
  
     _Now?_  
  
 _Tonight?_  
  
    He’d had time to think about it, adjust to the ideas of actually going all the way with each other in a real sense outside of fantasy.  They’d spoken a little more about it, but the questions of 'when' and 'how' were still very much up in the air.      
  
    Perhaps it was only the late hour thinking for him.  They kissed awhile longer before John pulled back so their lips were just brushing.  
  
    “Where’re we going tonight?” he asked, not immediately realizing the insinuation.  
    
    “I think you’ll like it,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.  
  
    They ended up in, what John thought was, the least likely of places: a partially abandoned apartment building.  John gave Sherlock a dubious look when Sherlock cut the ignition, but his only reply was a jerk of his head as he got out of the car.  John followed, but cautiously.  The building they’d parked in front of looked as if it used to be a huge, old, manor but has since been sectioned off into smaller apartments.  The other houses on the street were mostly well kept, if not a bit shabby due to the age of the homes, but this place’s front steps were crumbling, the windows were all boarded up, the lawn overgrown, and what few shutters were left hung by half of their screws.  It sat on the corner of the street just before the ditches along the side of the road curved down into a steep hill leading to the shoreline of a small, manmade lake beneath a bridge.      
  
    It was a mark of how trusting John was that he allowed himself to be lead up onto the porch.  Though the old adrenaline was beginning to spike again, excitement entering his bloodstream.  It was then that he noticed the yellow caution tape hanging limply in the doorway.  
  
    “Are we going to have our first time here?  Because I’m going to have to ask you to reconsider,” John said, a smile playing at his lips.   
   
    “What?  Of course not,” Sherlock replied, beckoning John over the caution tape and into the dim foyer.  Sherlock pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and used the light as a flashlight so that they could maneuver their way into the front room, which looked as if it may have once been the living room for the downstairs apartment.  A ratty couch was pushed up against the wall, but other than that there was no furniture in the room.  The boards on this room’s window had been torn off, but not very cleanly.  Nails still stuck through the frame, but the view was clear.  
  
    John froze when Sherlock’s light shone into the middle of the room.  
  
    “Sherlock,” John began slowly, “is that blood?”  
  
    “Yes, it is.”   
  
    “Are we at a crime scene?”  
  
    “Yes.”    
  
    John realized he really shouldn’t have been surprised.    
  
    “So what’d you want to show me about it?”       
  
    “I thought it was romantic,” Sherlock said, eyes clouding up as he gazed out of the window overlooking the lake.  
  
    “Romantic...” John repeated, chuckling.    
  
    “You don’t think so?” Sherlock turned back to him, a frown creasing his face.  
  
    “No, no, course I do, the spatter on the wall is very...interesting,” John took a step closer to the window, brushing the tips of his fingers over Sherlock’s hand hanging by his side.  
  
    “Oh!  You noticed,” Sherlock exclaimed delightedly, turning to the side wall, “the holes in the splatter make such interesting shapes, almost as if a child stood here, which was what I thought at first, but–can you tell what was here?”  He’d moved around to the other side of the room, taking careful steps around the blood.  
  
    “Uhh,” John tried to make out the shapes on the wall that Sherlock was referring to, but in the gloom it all just looked like a mess of blood droplets, “isn’t it a bad idea for us to be hanging around in a crime scene?  I mean, what if they come back for more evidence and our footprints are in the blood pool.”  
  
    “Oh, they’ve finished up here already, but they’re completely stumped.”  
  
    John didn’t have to ask how he knew that.  
  
    “So...?” Sherlock kept looking expectantly at him.  
  
    “I’ve no idea, Sherlock,” John said.    
  
    “Look, right here,” he moved so that he stood in front of one of the the blank spaces on the wall, “a man, perhaps even taller than I, stood here, but here,” he pointed to the space beside him, “there’s a much smaller space, but it’s still big, like an animal, probability says it’s most likely a dog!”  Sherlock was nearly vibrating with excitement.  
  
    “A dog?”    
  
    “Yes, yes, a dog, and in the police report, long gray hairs were found at the scene, but they haven’t yet tested them because they believed them to belong to an old woman who they ruled out as a witness considering the person here would’ve had to be at least six foot tall.”     
  
    “What dog has long, gray hair?” John asked.  
  
    “An Irish Wolfhound,” he said imperiously, “and they’re not all that common considering the mere size of them, a purebred will be a hell of a lot easier to find in this city.”  He was looking incredibly pleased with himself, “I just had to tell someone, I’m going to send in my tip in the morning to the police.”  John’s mouth hung open.  
  
    Wow.    
  
    “You’re so bloody clever,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, then quieter asked, more to himself, “why would you want someone like me?”  
  
    Sherlock’s face fell.  The words had come out so suddenly, but John felt them resonate within him.    
  
    “I do love you.”  It was a whisper; John wasn’t completely sure he’d heard correctly.  
  
    “Sorry?”  
  
    “I know it now,” Sherlock looked down at his feet, “that I love you.”  
  
    No matter how tall he got, no matter how tough his leather jacket looked, or how piercing his eyes became, this part of himself that he reserved only for John, seemed the most truthful.    
  
     John stood on the tips of his toes and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock turned to catch his lips, but just in that moment, they heard footsteps approaching through the grass.  John pulled back and saw a flashlight’s beam spill in through the open window.  
  
    “Shit,” John grabbed Sherlock by his collar and pulled him down so they were out of the view, but too late, they heard voices approaching, and the muffled static from a walkie talkie.    
  
    “Let’s go,” Sherlock whispered.  They skulked out of the sight of the window and started making their way toward the doorway where a door probably used to stand, but they heard footsteps on the porch.  
  
    Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and before he knew it, they were running.  It didn’t take much for John to keep up but skirting the trash and leftover furniture was another thing.  Through the doorway into the kitchen, through a bedroom where they finally found a backdoor.  It was nailed shut.  
  
    Sherlock kicked once, twice, but the door wouldn’t budge.  
  
    John heard a shout in the front room, “Police!”  
  
    “Oh my god, Sherlock, move.”  With a great burst of energy, he slammed his foot into the wooden door, right beside the doorknob, and it broke open.  They scrambled out and _ran_ , ran at full speed into the backyard as far as they could until they reached the shore, then they started along it, praying that they were out of sight.  By the time they were out of breath, they’d reached a thin brick house pressed in on either side by alleyways.  They had no idea how far they’d gone, only that there were no sirens to be heard and no footsteps behind them.    
  
    “Shit, that was...that was...” John panted, leaning back against the brick house.  
  
    “Fun,” Sherlock finished for him, grinning madly.  John started to laugh.  He’d missed this feeling, his adrenalin breaking through like a flood inside him.  And this time, it didn’t even come from beating the shit out of someone.    
  
    Suddenly, Sherlock was pressing him to the wall.  John didn’t even bother being startled, he just grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him down to his level, their lips colliding, fiercely.  Instantly, he was turned on, and wanting, and needing Sherlock.    
  
    “Ah,” he let out a small moan as Sherlock’s lips made their way down his throat, “S-Sherlock.”    
  
    “What the hell are you two doing?” they jumped at the voice, a yell from an upstairs window.  
  
    “Run,” Sherlock urged, and they clasped hands once again, and were off.    
  
    “We’ve gotta get back to your car,” John puffed as they ran down the alley and ended up back on the main street.  
  
    Slinking through the shadows, still trying to breath right, they finally made it back to the car and hurriedly got in.  Looking around, there was no sign of any cops or cop cars, but John was eager to get out of there.  For more reasons that just one.    
  
    On the drive back, he slid as close as he could to Sherlock, putting a hand on his thigh, testing the waters.  Was he up for it?  Sherlock kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel, but John noticed him biting his lip as soon as John had gotten close.  He kissed his neck, and Sherlock let out a shaky breath.  
  
    “We could,” Sherlock swallowed hard, “Go back to my house instead?”    
  
    “Please.”        
  
  
    John stared.  Slow down, talk.  They’d already had their talk, though.  Yes, they both wanted this.  Why not now?  Not perfect?  Not magical enough?  Their adrenalin levels were through the roof, they were ready.  
  
    The stood in Sherlock’s bedroom, coats flung to the sides, their faces within inches of one another.      
  
    John began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt with trembling fingers, but this time they weren’t trembling from nerves, but instead, excitement.  He pushed the shirt over Sherlock’s shoulders and it dropped to his bedroom floor.  John pressed his hands to Sherlock’s bare chest, thin and bony, shining palely in the moonlight from outside.  
  
    The ghosts of themselves sat on the bed, watching movies, playing boardgames, unknowing for how things would turn out, no idea what they’d be doing months on.  
  
    John reached up to kiss Sherlock again, slower this time.  His heart was beating out of control.  Sherlock tugged at his jeans and began unbuttoning them, still kissing him.  The heat of the moment urged John on; he swiftly pulled his t-shirt over his head and went right back to kissing, stepping out of his pants and starting to undo Sherlock’s.  They became a tangle of limbs and fell onto the bed, pushing each other’s underwear off until there was nothing between them.  John was in awe at the warm, soft feeling of Sherlock’s skin completely against him.  He was so turned on, he groaned each time Sherlock pressed even slightly against him.        
  
    John panted between kisses, trying to keep quiet.  
  
    “Are you...do we have...”    
  
    “O-oh, right.”  Sherlock turned away and reached into his bedside table.   
   
    “I have, well, I didn’t know what kind to get, so I got this big pack,” Sherlock turned back with an enormous box of condoms in his hand.  John started to laugh and had to clap a hand over his mouth.  
  
    “Just pick one,” he laughed.   
  
    Sherlock tore open the top and pulled one out between his first two fingers.  They both stared at it for a moment, the heat of the moment easing out.  With one movement, Sherlock offered it to him.  John took it, trying to steady his breath.  Quickly, he ripped it open and rolled it out, then turned on top of Sherlock.  He kissed him slowly, sucking on his bottom lip.  Sherlock curled his arms around John’s back, pulling his knees to his chest.    
  
    “Are you ok?” John asked.  
  
    “Yeah,” breathed Sherlock, “Are you?”  
  
    John nodded, but said, “It might not be good, the first time.”  This had worried him since the beginning, that it wouldn’t be good, that it would hurt too badly and they’d stop part way through and never restart again and the awkwardness of the intimate moment would grow too large between them.    
  
    “Then we’ll try again,” Sherlock answered, his small, familiar smile flitting across his handsome face.  John’s stomach turned over with butterflies.   
   
     _God, I love him._  
  
    Sherlock arched upward as John pressed down against him.    
    
    This is my first time, our first time, we’re losing our virginities to one another.  The thoughts spiraled on loop through John’s head.  He was quite incredulous and his heart lurched, not unpleasantly, at the thoughts.  Young, slicked in sweat, their hands trembling, their bodies soft against one another, and the pleasure of having each other: this was right, John knew.  
  
    “Ready?” it was the tiniest of whispers.    
  
    “Yes,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, but determined.          
                        
    John pressed into him, slowly, as slowly as he could go, even though his body screamed to go for it, he knew better than to listen.  John bit his lip to keep from making too much noise, the pleasure manifested as a moan stuck in his throat.  Every time Sherlock’s face turned pained, he’d pull back, wait a moment, but Sherlock always pulled him back in.  After a while, they lost track of how long, they eventually found a rhythm.  
  
    “I love you,” John whispered as they moved very slowly together.  
  
    “And I love you,” Sherlock gasped, “Oh John.”  
  
    It didn’t take long for either of them.    
  
  
    Although they’d gone slow, steady, savoring the immense pleasure of the moments, the aftermath still left both of them on their backs, breathing heavily and sweating like it was summer already.    
  
    “Sherlock?” John asked after a few moments of just their heavy exhales filling the silence.  
  
    “Hm?”  
  
    “Are you alright?”  
  
    “It was brilliant,” he said, “more than I could’ve asked for.”  
  
    “Really?” John turned toward him, still nude on top of the blankets.  Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but he nodded.    
  
    “Because I was worried that–,” but Sherlock cut him off with a swift kiss.  
  
    “It was with you,” he whispered, placing his fingers against John’s cheek, eyes sweeping over his face.  And John knew what he meant.  John just kissed him again.  
  
    Before Sherlock, losing his virginity had been a dream: the idea conjured images of some pretty girl he fancied who fancied him enough to take him to bed.  Now, those ideas felt strange, foreign, and somehow distant, like the knowledge of a previous life.  This had been right, ideal even.  For this to take place in their cocoon of safety, Sherlock’s bedroom, where what felt like everything else between them had transpired, was fitting.  No candlelight or rose peddles on the bed was needed.  The pleasure overshadowed their awkward movements, but even remembering their awkwardness somehow seemed okay because it was _them_ and the ride of their relationship had never been smooth and gone without a hitch.  They’d figure things out, they always did, John figured.  
  
     “I’ve got to get you home,” Sherlock reminded him once they’d broken the kiss.   
   
    “Right,” John said, sounding dejected.  He wished the spend the night, if he was being honest.  But he sat up, looking around for his clothes.    
  
    “Don’t worry, there will be more time for us later,” Sherlock reassured, sitting up and reaching over the side of the bed to grab a garment of clothing.  He turned back to John, his face more serious, and said, “You’re very handsome you know.”  His soft eyes rested on John’s face, full of sincerity and adoration.   
   
    John’s face immediately went bright red and he pulled his knees up to his chest, “Oh, Sherlock, gosh, do you have to say that when I’m naked?”  Sherlock’s lips cracked into another grin, “After that I don’t think either of us are allowed to be embarrassed in one another’s presence.”  John snorted with laughter, but was still red in the face.    
  
    “Your attractiveness still blows me away,” John muttered, taking the shirt that Sherlock offered him.  He heard Sherlock’s low chuckle.    
  
    “Hey,” a thought had just come to John, although he thought he knew Sherlock’s answer already, “do you want to go to prom with me?”  
  
    He heard Sherlock’s long, exasperated, sigh and turned to see him with his brow furrowed.  
  
    “I had a feeling you’d ask that,” he said.  
  
    “Come on, it’ll be fun, I mean, we can only go as friends, but...”  
  
    “I didn’t know friends went to bed with one another,” Sherlock sniffed as he pulled his underwear back on.  John scrunched up his face in annoyance, but was smiling.  
  
    “So will you?”  
  
    Sherlock sighed again, “of course.”    
  
    “Don’t sound so eager, now,” John joked.     
   
    They finished dressing and snuck back down the stairs, Sherlock checking on the snores coming from his parents’ bedroom.  
  
    “If they heard us I don’t think I can ever visit again,” John said, once they were outside.  Sherlock actually laughed out loud and said, “You would’ve known if they’d heard, they probably would’ve left flowers outside the bedroom door with a ‘congratulations!’ note attached.”  John pinched the bridge of his nose as he laughed and got into the car.                  
  
     They reached John’s dad’s apartment much too quickly.  When Sherlock put on the brakes, John didn’t get out immediately.  He looked up at the complex through the window, his heart beating wildly, then faced Sherlock again.  
  
    “Sherlock, will you...I mean, next time, would you...take me?” John asked, feeling embarrassed even though he knew he shouldn’t after that, but the thought had been nagging at him.      
  
    Sherlock stared down his long, straight nose, green eyes boring into his and John felt his heart lurch again, his breath taken away by the handsome boy who’d accepted, even chosen, him.  
  
    “Anything you’d like.”  
  
    John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and kissed him again, a whimper escaping his mouth and not even caring.  And he didn’t even care if at that moment his father looked out the window and saw them, or the entire world saw them, because _he was happy_.     
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never heard of anyone’s first time being all sunshine and rainbows and perfect so I thought it a tad unrealistic if they had crazy, wild, passionate sex the first time. I was trying to capture the rawness, the emotions, and make it less of a “sexy scene” and more of a realistic moment/event between the two. I also had a bit of trouble finding a decent balance between them realistically being safe (using condoms, lube, etc.) and writing the scene in a way that wasn’t like a textbook example of how to have safe sex. So, if anything about it is super unrealistic, I’m really sorry and I’ll try better next time!  
>  (I was also trying to write that scene with my boyfriend sitting next to me and I’m just like 'dear god let him not read over my shoulder he will tease me mercilessly'). Ah, living with a significant other.


	11. Chapter 11

    Sherlock pressed into him, rocking their hips together, his body unusually hot.  

    “Ah, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, “just do it.”  Sherlock pushed inside of him and John let out a long moan of satisfaction.  

    “I want to see you come,” Sherlock’s deep purr met his ears and nearly pushed him over the edge, his arousal full to bursting point.  Sherlock’s lips found his but he could only kiss in short increments, the feeling of Sherlock in him was overwhelming.  

    “Sherlock, I–I,” John braced himself and... 

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep_

    John startled awake, disoriented and fumbling to end the noise of his alarm.  He reached out and found the button then let his arm swing down over the side of the bed.    

    “Ah, fuck,” he muttered into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, willing away the remnants of his arousal.

 

    John waited for Sherlock outside of his first class and had to keep himself from grabbing him as soon as he approached.

    Sherlock greeted him with a smile and a nod.  

    “It’s hard seeing you when I can’t touch you,” John whispered, almost whined when he was close enough.  Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

    “Well, we can meet up sometime when you can,” Sherlock said under his breath, shifting his eyes sideways as a couple of students passed.  

    “After school?” John offered.

    “Your house is closer,” Sherlock murmured.  They were much too close now.  

    “Hey guys,” Greg said pointedly, passing alongside Tom and nudging John with his elbow.

    “Oh, hey,” John ran a hand through his hair and took half a step back from Sherlock.  

    “Come on, classes and whatnot,” Greg jerked his head.  

    “See you later,” he said to Sherlock and followed behind Greg and Tom.  

    “Nice hickey Sherlock’s got,” Greg smirked.  John’s cheeks heated up immediately, but he didn’t say anything.  Tom was looking straight ahead as if he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.  Things were still weird between him and John, but none of the other guys had seemed to notice.       

    “Are we still taking your SUV to prom?” John asked Greg in an attempt to change the subject.

    “Yep, you, me, Sherlock, and I asked Molly to accompany me,” Greg answered, stopping at the intersection to the math corridor, “I mean, I know we could all probably walk but better not risk it with out ‘nice clothes.’” 

    “I’ll see you guys later,” Tom said, not looking at John and headed off in the direction they’d been going.  

    “See you,” Greg said, patting his arm, “so you and Sherlock just going to keep it on the down low at prom, then?”

    John nodded, watching Tom’s back receding through the crowd.

    “Well, hope it’s fun at least.”  

 

    John and Sherlock made it inside John’s house without so much as touching one another, but they didn’t make it far after.  John locked their lips together, pushing him up the stairs.    

    “John?”

    John jumped so quickly away from Sherlock he almost stumbled back down the stairs.  

    “Hey Mom,” he called down the hallway as his mom appeared in the doorway to the living room with a handful of papers.

    “Hello Ms. Watson,” Sherlock greeted, holding up a hand nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just been making out with her son.  

    “Hi Sherlock, you staying for dinner?” 

    “Yes, thank you,” Sherlock replied politely.  

    “I thought you had work today,” John said worriedly.  

    “Had today off, I’ll be working on Saturday,” she said, starting back into the living room.  His mom had found a part-time job as a sale’s associate at the new toy store in the mall.  It wasn’t much, but John was pleased, because she seemed happy with it.  And she was writing again, which he hadn’t seen her do probably since he was ten.

    “Should we go to your place?” John murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

    “I already agreed to dinner,” Sherlock replied.  

    “We’ll just be quiet.”

    They headed upstairs, trying not to run.  They hurriedly undressed, as much as they thought safe in case anyone were to knock on the door, and Sherlock took John from behind, holding a hand over John’s mouth to keep his moans soft.   

     

\-------

 

    John’s mom had _requested_ that he and Harry take pictures before they went off to the dance.  Harry made a lot of faces, at least until Irene rung the doorbell then she was all sweet smiles and batting eyelashes as the extremely attractive dark haired young woman entered their house.  John almost choked on his laughter at how ridiculous she was acting, he’d never seen her hung up on someone so much before.

    “Hello Irene,” their mom said, holding out a hand.  Irene smiled and shook her hand.    

    “Hello Ms. Watson,” Irene said, then turned to John, “And you must be John.”

    “Hi,” he said, smiling and also shaking her hand.  He couldn’t believe Harry, all tough and badass, had managed a catch like Irene, who was completely made-up, looking like a porcelain doll, and dressed like a movie star.  It seemed that Harry couldn’t believe her luck either.  

    “Let’s get pictures over with,” Harry said.  Irene looped her arm through Harry’s and they stood by the fireplace while Ms. Watson readied her camera.

  

    “I can’t believe you couldn’t get a girl to go with you,” John’s mom sighed once Harry and Irene had left and as John watched Greg’s car pull up.  John made a “hm” noise in his throat.

      “See you later, Mom,” he said, then skirted outside before she could demand photos of all of them.  He got in the back of the SUV where Sherlock was already sitting, looking dashing in his black and white tuxedo.

    “Wow,” John greeted him with.  

    “Hi, John,” came a small voice from the front of the car. 

    “O-oh, hey Molly,” John said, peeling his eyes from Sherlock, whose face had twisted into a smirk, “hey Greg.”

    “Off we go then!” Greg announced, and pulled away from the curb.  

 

    The cafeteria had been transformed into a spring-themed wonderland, fit to burst with paper flowers and cardboard cut-outs of bees hanging from the ceiling.  Sherlock’s discomfort and utter contempt was written all over his face, but he made no noise as they made their way over to a couple of tables that James, Tom, Mike, and their dates had already commandeered.

    As previous dances that John had been to (homecoming, those terrible middle school dances where someone always ended up crying) the most entertaining part was watching everyone else.  The dance floor in front of the D.J had been taken over by the loudest and most exuberant couples in the school, all of which were being closely watched by the chaperoning teachers.  Everyone else had succumbed to the desserts that were being served and the lure of getting off their feet for awhile.  John watched his friends come and go as songs they enjoyed came over the speakers or their dates requested dances.  But he and Sherlock remained at the table, talking and joking like good mates.  The atmosphere remained friendly, he didn’t have to work _too_ hard to keep from sliding onto Sherlock’s lap and kissing him until they were both dizzy.

    “See this is fun,” John nudged him with his elbow.

    “We aren’t even dancing, what was the point of coming to a dance?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

    “It’s fun to just get dressed up and hang out,” John replied.  A slow song, something acoustic faded on, warmly filling the cafeteria.

    “Let’s go, you two,” came Greg’s voice from behind them.  They both turned to see Greg and Mike passing, “We’re gonna dance, you should too.”  John watched in half amazement, half amusement, as Greg offered Mike his hand and they began an awkwardly slow shuffling.  Molly sat down at their table and started laughing immediately at the sight.

    “They’re ridiculous,” she chuckled.  Greg waved over to her enthusiastically, then took Mike’s hand again and spun him around.  John just shook his head, a dopey grin on his face.           

    “Alright, well since we’re here, we might as well...” Sherlock stood up, turned to John and offered him his hand.

    John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Er–Sherlock...”

    “Come on, John, they’ll think it’s a joke,” Sherlock implored, holding out his hand, “and I love dancing.”

    “Do you?” John asked with a smirk.  Sherlock’s lips twitched.

    John sighed and finally agreed, “Fine.”  He allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet, then dropped his hand as they made their way out onto the edge of the dance floor.  But then Sherlock lifted his hands and John took them again, keeping a decent amount of space between them.  

    “If you think we’re going to waltz to Taylor Swift, I have news for you,” John laughed.  Sherlock pretended to let out an annoyed sigh, but smiled back.

    “No waltz, then.” 

    John heard Mike catcall and turned Sherlock on the spot so he could stick his tongue out at his friends who were still rotating with each other nearby.  They started laughing, turning heads at the tables nearest them.  John and Sherlock slowly revolved on the spot, John being sure to keep his eyes anywhere but Sherlock’s face because he knew what he might do if they became too close.  He smiled awkwardly, keeping the facade of a joke going on.  Some of the people dancing close to them giggled.  John saw several people at the tables pointing and whispering behind their hands.  John tried to laugh, but his palms were sweating.  No, this was dangerous, this had been a bad idea.  

    “Sherlock, I don’t think they think it’s a joke,” John muttered through clenched teeth, trying to keep a smile on his face as Sherlock spun him slowly.  

    “Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock pulled him closer, gripping the back of his tuxedo.

    “Sherlock...” adrenalin was speeding through his veins all of sudden, ramping up his heartbeat.  Two very different emotions fought for dominance within him.  He adored being this physically close to Sherlock, wanted to kiss every inch of him, take him in his arms, but the fear of scrutiny, of rumors, bullying and every other horrible thing he’d ever heard of held him at arm’s length.

    “John,” Sherlock said, his face much too close.  Their foreheads touched.

    His lips felt warm all of a sudden, and there was pressure keeping them that way.  The dance had dissolved, they were by themselves.  They were not in the middle of a crowd, not under hot, bright, spotlights.  For half a second, he allowed himself to be kissed. 

    And then everything came crashing back down again.

    “Sherlock!” John exclaimed, pushing him away.  There were many more eyes suddenly on both of them, shocked glances, exchanged looks of ‘ _what the fuck.‘_   Not everyone had noticed, but the whispering had begun.  The slow song ended and a fast one started up.  

    Sherlock’s face was shocked at John’s shove.  John turned on his heel and started for the exit, wiping a hand across his mouth as if doing so would erase the last minute.  He left the cafeteria, but heard Sherlock’s voice behind him.      

    “John, John I‘m sorry,” Sherlock caught him by the arm, but John yanked it away.

    “I forgot where we were, just for a minute, I’m sorry.”

    “No you’re not, you’ve always wanted to be out about this!  Why didn’t you consider how I’d feel about that?”  A part of him knew he was being unfair, jumping to conclusions, assuming the worst, and blaming the most, but that part wasn’t fueling his anger, his frustration and humiliation.

    “No, Sherlock,” John stepped back, keeping out of reach when Sherlock had stepped forward again.

    “I’m not comfortable with this, which is what I told you _months_ ago, which is why we’ve been hiding for that long,” John said angrily, “You should’ve respected that.”  There were people in the atrium watching them, but he was so blinded, unable to completely wrap his head around what had happened, that he didn’t even notice.

    “I know, I just forgot...”

    “You remember _everything_!”  John knew his anger was getting away from him, and now that it was directed at Sherlock there was no one to calm him down.  

    “Well maybe I didn’t care, then!”  Sherlock swung his arms out emphatically, matching John’s frustration, “Maybe I wanted people to see how happy we are, I wanted them to see _us_ as _us_.”

    “That wasn’t your decision to make,” John growled through clenched teeth, eyes narrowed, “and I thought you didn’t _care_ about what people think.”

    Sherlock had grown visibly upset, his mouth in a frown, his eyes sunken.

    “I guess I care that they’re talking about something that makes me happy,” but he didn’t sound very happy anymore, “I’m sorry, but now that it’s happened, wouldn’t it have been easier this way all along?”  

    John balked at that, “Easier?  This isn’t easier, Sherlock.”  _This fear, and embarrassment, and uneasiness.  This is not as easy as it should be, maybe.  But it never would’ve been any better._

    “I just meant,” Sherlock clenched his jaw then opened it, then closed it again, “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I forgot what we were doing, and I just wanted to kiss you.”  

    John couldn’t see it then, but he’d remember it later, that a similar thought had passed through his head moments before he’d kissed Sherlock for the first time.

    But he was passed the point of reason, nostalgia, anything kind anymore.  The atrium was completely silent except for their shouts, the opening of curtains that had long since been shut to anyone else.    

    He continued shaking his head, “I didn’t want to be out, I didn’t want this, because you know what?  I _do_ care what people think, and you should’ve respected that!”   

    “Respect that?!” Sherlock’s hurt eyes were blazing, “Respect that?  Hiding away like this isn’t respectable, it’s _cowardly_.”  

     At that moment, James hurried out of the cafeteria, and stopped when he saw them.

    “Guys...” 

    “Fuck it,” John declared.  

    “Fine,” Sherlock growled.  They both turned on their heels and stalked away from each other, shoving the school doors open in opposite directions.  Neither looked back.   

 

    The walk home was the worst one yet.  Alone couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt.  When he finally reached the house, he didn’t even greet his mom, just went straight up to his room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

    Yes, that had been a disaster.  Worse than he’d ever imagined things turning out. 

    His anger had sparked Sherlock’s, and the spiral had begun.  Sherlock’s words hung in his head.

    How long would it take for the knowledge to spread?  That Sherlock had kissed him at the prom.  And he knew he’d kissed back, just for the tiniest of moments.  Had anyone noticed that?  Could he, perhaps, claim that the kiss was unexpected?  

    But that left his heart feeling heavier than ever.  Sherlock, who was already an easy target for ridicule, the smartest kid in school who deemed no one else worth of friendship, could not take all the blame, he wouldn’t allow that to happen.  

    And no one could’ve misread their argument afterwards.    

    There was a knock on his door.

    “Sherlock?” he called without thinking.

    The door opened, but it wasn’t Sherlock who stepped inside.

    “Tom?” John sat up in bed, wiping his face, embarrassment creeping back in.  

    “Hey,” he said, closing the door behind him and coming over to sit on the bed.  He didn’t meet John’s eyes right away, staring determinedly at the floor.  John curled his legs up to his chest and leaned back against the pillows.  At his most vulnerable, Tom was the last person he wanted to see right then.  _Why come now?_   He waited, watching Tom stare unblinkingly at the floor.  He would not be the first to speak.

    “I’m sorry,” Tom finally whispered.

    This took John aback. 

    “Uh...” he meant to say ‘it’s okay‘ but at the moment, it really wasn’t.  Nothing was okay.  Nothing that Tom had said to him since he’d come out to him had been okay.  And John was least okay with anything in that moment.  

    “I didn’t realize, okay?” Tom finally looked up, his face contorted, his brow furrowed, “I know you said it’s hard, but I didn’t believe you.”

    John didn’t reply.  _You’re one of the reasons things have been so hard for me recently!_ He wanted to shout.

    “Is everyone talking about it?” John asked instead, his voice a whisper.  

    Tom looked surprised, but answered, “Well, Mike and Greg told a bunch of guys off for saying some pretty rude things, but no, n-not everyone.”

    John just nodded, exhaustion beginning its decent into him again.  It was the exhaustion he faced whenever the outside had become too much.   

    “Did you and Sherlock work things out?  Things seemed to have gotten pretty heated...”

    John shook his head, “It’s so hard sometimes, you know?”

    _Of course you don’t know..._

    He didn’t mean to continue, Tom was the last person he wanted to have this conversation with, but he couldn’t stop once he’d started, “It’s like, we were great friends and there was always this strange barrier between us and we broke through it when we finally started this relationship but now all these other barriers keep coming up like we’re not supposed to be together.”

    Tom was silent for a moment.  John was thinking how he probably shouldn’t have said anything when Tom finally whispered, “I don’t think that’s true.  

    John was so surprised that he looked back up at him. 

    “I watch you two and there’s so much happiness there, you’ll work through it.”

    John watched him for a minute.  His face was pained, and John just didn’t have the sympathy to give him, not right then.  Tom’s pain could not compare to his own.    

    “I hope so.”

    They sat in silence for another minute.  

    “Look, I should’ve been a friend to you, and I wasn’t, at all.”

    “Yeah, you weren’t,” John agreed right away, his voice dark.  

    “But you’ve always been a friend to me, helping me get over break-ups, you guys all bringing me ice cream when I was sick,” he smiled at the memory, “and for some reason I was able to so easily look past all that because what you were doing with your life, no matter how happy it made you, made me uncomfortable and that’s just...like, not acceptable, and I heard what those guys were saying and,” his face became angry, “no one deserves that, especially not you.”

    John had to admit he was touched by Tom’s confession.

    “Thanks,” he said; it was all he could say.  Tom smiled, but he still looked upset.

    “Just...” John ran a hand through his hair as if to clear his head enough to get through this conversation, “just be there for me now, okay?”  Because he needed a friend right then, and in the days to come he knew he’d need a friend more than anything.  

    Tom’s face resolved into a look of relief, “Of course.”  He placed a hand on John’s shoulder and pulled him into an awkward sort of hug.  John tensed at once, but soon uncurled his legs so he could pull him closer.  Despite himself, he felt a lump rising in his throat and allowed Tom to hug him tighter in the hope of dispelling it.  

 

    Tom didn’t say anything further.  And he never mentioned John’s silently trembling shoulders or the damp spot on his tuxedo.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno about you guys, but dances were always a flop to me, although never quite to this extent.


	12. Chapter 12

    The morning following the dance, John woke up and felt _terrible_. 

    Instantly, he remembered he wasn’t speaking with Sherlock and immediately wished the previous night hadn’t happened, had just been a terrible, terrible dream.  

    But he was “out” now, wasn’t he?What could he expect on Monday?   

    Harassment: that was for sure.Whispers behind hands, hiding the faces of people he thought he knew well. His school career was forever changed.Would this be his reputation from now on?  

    He shuddered to think about it, the conjured thoughts becoming more and more ludicrous and self deprecating.Maybe he could just lie here until summer vacation.  

  

    As if his mom had heard him wake up, there was a knock at the door.

    “Come in,” he called.She stepped through the door, her face tired as he’d become accustomed to seeing it, but her hair was pulled back from her face and she wore her all black work clothes.The last time he remembered her coming in to visit him in his room was to kiss him goodnight when he was younger.Then he’d started closing his bedroom door at night, his way of saying he’d grown up.

    But he wanted to be anything but grown up right then.  

    “How’re you feeling, sweetie?How was prom?” there was something in her voice that alerted him. _Did she know?_

    “It was...okay,” he decided on, sitting up under the covers.

    “Um,” she stepped further into the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.She looked conflicted and kept biting her lip.John’s heart sank.Something was very wrong. 

    “Sweetie, I got a call this morning from Greg’s mom.”

    His face started to heat up, his chest felt tight, constricting his accelerating heart.

_No no no no no no no no no no._  

    “She told me that she got a call from another parent of someone at your school,” she paused as if to give John a chance to jump in, her eyes were wide with concern.

    When he didn’t say anything due to the sick and horrible feeling in his stomach, she continued, “Um, they said you were, ah, kissing?You were kissing another boy?Sherlock?” 

_THIS ISN’T HOW THINGS WERE SUPPOSED TO GO._ He wanted to shout at her, or at least deny it, and...and what?Go on living in secrecy?Yes, he could do that...right?For how long?   Already he’d taken too long to answer.  He met him mom’s gaze, his cheeks red, his eyes close to welling up with tears again.   

    “I–I,” she was trying to cover her confusion, but was doing a poor job of it.She strode over until she was right beside John’s bed, her face turning determined. 

    “Well, if it’s true,” she took a deep breath, “I told Greg’s mother that these other parents need to mind their own business because,” she flung her arms out, “who _cares_ if my son is kissing another boy?”

    Overwhelming affection for her enveloped him at her words.  

    “Thanks, Mom,” he reached out and she took his hand, squeezing it supportively.

    She smiled, but there was some other emotion in her face that John couldn’t quite make out.

    “Of course,” she said, “I was a little confused, but–”

    “I know.”

     She took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed, “Since when?” 

    He was used to the questions now.Used to the confusing looks, the stutters, and the questions he knew they wanted to ask but were afraid to.  

    “About five months,” he answered, “you understand why I didn’t say anything.”He looked down at his hands in his lap, “and I’m in love with him.”

    She placed a soft palm against his cheek.

    “Oh dear, I wish you had told me earlier, but I respect your choice, it’s your business,” her eyes softened as they pulled apart, “but thank you for being honest.”

    He just nodded. 

    Then her face fell a little, “Do you want to tell your father?Or should I?” she asked, hesitantly.

    He wanted to say ‘yes, just tell him for me, be the barrier between us.’But instead, he shook his head.

    “I’ll do it.”He didn’t know exactly why he felt it so important, but he was tired of keeping quiet, or letting others speak out for him.He just wished he could have Sherlock beside him, or at least his support behind him when he did it. 

    “Just give him time,” she said, standing up.Those words gave him no solace.   

    “I’m off to work now,” she reached the door and turned around. 

    “Whoever you choose, make sure they make you happy,” she smiled, the concern on her face beginning to wear away.

  

    John laid in bed for several hours trying to build enough walls around himself that he no longer thought about what Monday in school would be like, but one simple thought would push him back into the turmoil of worry and frustration.He felt like he was stewing in a death bed. 

    His phone remained silent.It lay next to him in his bed, and he watched it like a TV.It didn’t buzz.He didn’t move. 

    And he missed Sherlock, but he didn’t want to talk to him.But then again, he did. 

    Eventually he moved from just lying down to just walking.He got dressed, slowly and laboriously, pulling his shoes on with great effort, his head blank but also racing.   

_I’ll just see Sherlock, see if he wants to talk._  

_He doesn’t._  

_But maybe he does._  

_Think about it, he doesn’t need to talk to you, so after last night, why would he_ want _to?_    

    He could not stand this void, the beginnings of emptiness. 

    “This is the fourth time I’ve seen you pass the house.”

    John stopped on the sidewalk and turned at the voice.Harry stood at the bottom of their porch stairs in a black t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, exposing the shadows under her eyes. 

    “And I’ve only been up for an hour,” she continued, catching up beside him.

    “It’s like three in the afternoon,” he said, frowning and furrowing his brow.  

    “Couldn’t sleep.” 

    “Oh,” is all John said.They began slowly walking side by side. 

    “So...prom?” she said cautiously.There was no hint of a sneer on her face or a mocking tone in her voice. 

    “You know what happened then?”   

    “Of course,” she said, softly, “I saw it happen.”

    Embarrassment burned his cheeks, “Of course.”   

    She put a hand on his arm, “It’ll be the talk of the school for a while, but eventually someone will get pregnant or a couple will break-up and no one will remember they were amazed that you’re not straight,” she said. 

    He grunted, “Yeah.”Although he didn’t completely believe her. 

    They were both quiet for awhile, just wandering over sidewalks and sometimes hurrying across streets before the traffic reached them. 

    “How’s Sherlock?” Harry asked, still with that cautious voice. 

    John felt empty when he answered, “I don’t know, we got in a huge fight afterwards.”It hurt thinking about him without someone to talk to, just wallowing in his own head.John felt a lump in his throat at the thought.   

    Harry pulled him closer to her, “And you’re not talking to him because...?” 

    John shook his head, “I don’t know, I feel so frustrated with everything...,” he frowned, “You know, I’m afraid of going to school, but I think I’m more afraid of losing him,” he confessed.At his words, a small weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders.Getting it out in the open helped, somehow.   

    “You won’t lose him, and you know that, you also need him now more than ever.”It wasn’t a suggestion.John didn’t respond immediately.He hadn’t been paying attention to where they were walking, but he started to notice the familiarity of the victorian houses and the small, pretty lawns next to their path.

    “How are you doing, then?” John asked, hoping to take the attention off of himself.Harry took a long pause before answering, which worried him.He glanced down into her face that had turned pained. 

    “Irene broke up with me last night.” 

    “What?” he stopped walking, “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.She stopped too, looking down at her feet.

    She just shrugged and muttered, “It’s fine.” 

    “Obviously it’s not,” John said, louder than he’d meant to, “What happened?” 

    “Said I just wasn’t her type,” Harry chuckled, but he could hear the hurt.   

    “Harry, I’m sorry, I’ve been so caught up with my own shit, this entire year, I haven’t even asked you about what’s going on with you,” he sighed, “I didn’t even know you were dating someone.”  

    “Really, it’s fine, break-ups and stuff, they happen,” she shrugged again, rubbing her arm uneasily, “and you’ve had a lot of shit to go through this year, so I don’t blame you.” 

    “Well how are you feeling?” 

    “Pretty hurt,” she tried to smile reassuringly again but it got lost somewhere along the way, “I really liked her.” 

    He put an arm around her shoulders and she didn’t object. 

    “John,” she went on, looking up into his face, “how serious is it with you and Sherlock?” 

    He thought the best way to answer that. _I love him, he loves me too, he’s really my everything, although we’re so young._  

    “I’d say pretty serious.”   

    “You sleep together?” 

    John nodded. 

    “Wow, look at you,” she poked him in the ribs.   

    “You’re the first person I’ve told,” he smiled a little, “I wanted to tell someone as soon as it happened but I didn’t think I had anyone who’d care.”

    “Course _I_ would’ve cared, I always wanna know when my big brother’s getting some from the cute boy down the street,” she smirked and winked.  

    He smiled back, but then he saw her eyes flick to the house behind them.He turned, realizing where they’d stopped. 

    “Go talk to him,” she nodded her head toward the brick home with a turret out front.John looked up, thinking maybe he’d see a shadow in the upper window or the movement of a curtain.Now that he was here, he couldn’t imagine not going in.  

    “I’ll be home later,” he said. 

    “And if you’re not, I’ll cover for you,” she smiled wider then.John nodded, and started for the front door. 

    He took a deep breath as he listened to Harry’s receding footsteps, then rang the doorbell.It took almost a minute before he heard the lock click in the door and it opened. 

    “John?” Mrs. Holmes stuck her head out the doorway. 

    “Hi Mrs. Holmes,” he greeted, a little unsure, “is Sherlock home?” 

    “Well,” she looked over her shoulder, “yes, but he’s sleeping still.” 

    “Oh well...” 

    “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you woke him up,” she said kindly, stepping aside to let him in. 

    “Thanks,” he muttered and went inside.He started up the staircase but Mrs. Holmes stopped him by saying, “Oh, he’s actually sleeping on the couch.” 

    Confused, John stepped back into the hallway and, with an encouraging nod from Mrs. Holmes, went into the living room.Still in his black and white tuxedo from the night before, Sherlock lay curled on the couch, facing the cushions.A record was spinning on the record player across the room, but the volume was too low 

    “He wouldn’t let me get him upstairs,” Mrs. Holmes whispered, looking slightly distraught.  

    John drew near and bent down, placing a hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder.He heard Mrs. Holmes leave the room.

    “Sherlock,” John said softly.Sherlock’s whole body shuddered then his eyes opened, bleary and unseeing at first.Then he turned his head, squinting from the dying afternoon sun coming in through the windows. 

    “John?” he reached out a hand and John took it.   

    “Come rest with me,” he murmured, pulling John’s hand to his chest as if to pull him onto the couch. 

    “There’s no room,” John said, laughing.Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he turned over onto his back, looking up into John’s face.From that look alone, John sighed, sat down on the edge of the couch as Sherlock moved over to make room, and lifted his feet up beside Sherlock’s.

    “I was up all night, couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock said, his voice low and gravely.John put an arm across his chest and held him tight. _This is the way things are supposed to be._ Sherlock’s arm slid around John’s shoulders, his long fingers keeping him from falling off the edge.  

    “And I had a dream...I hate dreams...but you were there so I didn’t mind...” Sherlock went on, still in a groggy state.  

    “I’m sorry,” John whispered, pressing his cheek to Sherlock’s shoulder. 

    “Wha?” 

    “Sherlock, I’m sorry, I lost my temper, I was upset...” 

    “No, no,” Sherlock turned his head, “I wasn’t so kind either.” 

    “I hate arguing with you and not talking to you,” John said, even more quietly, his lips just brushing Sherlock’s neck. 

    “Well if it’s any consolation, I believe we’re pretty bad at it.” 

    Sherlock turned his head and pushed their lips together.John sighed with relief into the kiss. 

    “I love you,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak.And he didn’t think he’d ever be able to say it enough times, to properly and completely explain how he felt about Sherlock.So he’d just say, _‘i love you’_ over and over and over again and hope Sherlock knew the extent of it.As Sherlock turned on his side and hugged him close and kissed him softly, John thought he, the boy who seemed to know it all, just might understand. 

    “Sherlock?” they heard a voice coming in from the kitchen.John started to pull back, but Sherlock kept his arms firmly around him. 

    “In here, Dad.” 

    John looked over just as Sherlock’s father appeared out of the dim kitchen.He didn’t seem surprised at the sight of them.  

    “Hello, John,” he smiled warmly, “just stopped in to flip over the record,” he pointed at the box against the wall, “you two need anything?” 

    “Maybe some tea?” Sherlock suggested, pulling his arm out from around John and sitting up. 

    Mr. Holmes fiddled with the record player, flipped the record over, then said “I’m on it,” and bustled off, humming softly along with the new song. 

    John watched him go.

    “Does he know?”  

    John sat up, too, as Sherlock nodded.  

    “I told them, both my parents, a few days ago,” Sherlock said, crossing his legs under him, “They were all supportive, well, they pretty much already knew, and since neither Mycroft nor I have never had a significant other before you can imagine how they’d be excited,” he sounded slightly annoyed. 

    John was surprised, a little stunned even.He thought of all those times they’d closed the bedroom door.Had they known? _Oh, jeez_.  

    “Don’t be embarrassed, they just want you to stay for dinner more often,” Sherlock smiled, noticing the look on John’s face, “And I expect they’ll be wanting grandchildren soon,” Sherlock sniffed.John chuckled, relieved, and pulled Sherlock back into a kiss.

    “Just my dad to tell, then,” John said, reminding himself. 

    Mr. Holmes was back with the tea.

    “You all want to watch a film?” he asked. 

    “I think we’re gonna go up,” Sherlock said, picking up his teacup and standing. 

    John blushed, and took a teacup, taking a huge gulp. 

    “Well alright, I think I’ll get back to my books then, goodnight you two,” he started to leave then stopped, “Oh, and I hope you like pancakes, John, Mrs. Holmes is making them in the morning and they’re _fantastic_.”  

    “Uh, yeah, thanks,” John looked down at his feet.He heard Sherlock snort a laugh beside him. 

    They took their tea upstairs, but it went cold before they had a chance to drink it, because as soon as the door was closed with a snap behind them, they’d wrapped each other in a tight hug, then moved toward the bed. 

    Sherlock sat down on the edge of his mattress and John positioned himself on his lap, facing him.  

    “Why always the buttoned up shirts when I need you to take it off?” John muttered into Sherlock’s mouth as he fought with the buttons. 

    “Yet you’re always up for the challenge,” Sherlock snarked back, pushing his hands under John’s sweatshirt.   

    They wrestled one another out of their clothes and sank into a comfortable intimacy between the sheets.John had to let go, or else he’d shrivel up, filled only with self-loathing.But this: Sherlock’s sweat slicked chest on top of his, their bodies pressed together and the soft moans between kisses, was what kept him going.John lay on his back with Sherlock over him, pushing his hips up, into him, as Sherlock pressed down.Small intakes of breath and little noises kept escaping his mouth, his eyes closed, and John knew he was enjoying himself.He slowly stroked John, making him arch his back and curl in his toes.They kissed and Sherlock nipped his neck and they tangled themselves together and snickered into each other’s mouths and _this_ was home. 

 

\-------

 

    Silence fell about ten minutes into dinner.Only the tinny sound of John and his father’s forks scraping against their plates broke the silence of where their conversation used to be.He’d called his dad and asked to come by tonight, and of course, he’d happily agreed.

    “Always glad to have you over,” he’d said on the phone.John refrained from fronting his visit with a warning that he had something important to tell him.  

    John had asked Harry if it could just be him and Dad tonight.He couldn’t wait any longer to tell him.   

    “If you want,” she’d said calmly.Her face staring blankly at the book in her hands gave nothing away.He’d decided against a buffer.It would be just him and Dad and his guts all out on the table.He was glad that Harry was keeping quiet about it; he really didn’t need her opinion in the mix of chaos inside his head.

    “Thanks,” he’d muttered before leaving her room.

 

His own chewing became a rhythm in his head and he had to put a stop to it. 

    “Dad, I’d like to tell you something.” 

    He’d decided, before arriving, the tactic he would take. 

_“I have something to tell you,”_ had a feeling of gloom hanging over it.   

_“I’d like to share something with you,”_ had felt like his other option, but that rang false in his head.Perhaps some other son would say that to their father, but that wasn’t something John would say to his. 

    So he’d decided on, _“Dad, I’d like to tell you something.”_  

_That’s right, I’m letting him know that this is my choice to tell him, not that it’s a necessity but that I’m choosing to let him in on a part of my life._ This was his reasoning, anyhow.   

    His dad looked up, a completely calm look on his face. 

_He’s not expecting this._  

    John opened his mouth, “I’m–uh, getting an award for English class this year.”   

_Chicken._

    Immediately, he wanted to turn back. 

    “Oh?That’s excellent,” his father smiled, and it was so genuine that John was almost glad he’d lied, “Is there an assembly?I remember my senior year I won awards for Art, English, and–” 

    “Dad, I’m bisexual.” 

    John hadn’t believed that this level of silence could be reached, and so quickly too.The appropriate moment he’d been hoping for had certainly passed.  

     His father’s face that had just been full of energy fell into a stony mask.  John stared back into his father’s eyes only from the fear that breaking the gaze would result in something cataclysmic.  The emotion was lost; John couldn’t read him.  His father had always closely guarded his emotions.   

    “How do you know?” he finally uttered, keeping his lips as tightly locked as he could and still speak.  

    “I’m-,” John cleared his throat, pushing his shoulders against the back of chair, “I’m currently...seeing someone, a, a guy.”He despised his stuttering, but knew that at this point, it was completely out of his control. 

_Maybe he’ll ask about Sherlock, like a normal father inquiring about a child’s significant other._   

    John could see the conversation rapidly transpiring in his head:

_“What’s the matter with this family?”_

_“I didn’t know that there was anything the matter with me.”_  

_“Of course there is!”_  

_“Fuck you.”_  

_“Don’t walk away from me, you are_ not _leaving!”_

    His father finished chewing, slowly and swallowed.John watched, bracing himself for an outburst. 

    “Well, alright then.”

****John stared, not completely sure he’d heard correctly.

    “You’re okay with that?” John asked carefully.  

    His father looked up again, “Of course, that’s not something you can change.”And he went back to his plate.

    Then he paused, “Are you actually getting an award for English?”

    John blushed, “No,” he muttered.

    “Oh,” and there was disappointment in his voice, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

    And finally, relief hit him.He was done with coming out in his small life right here.He’d survived for now.More significantly, the most important people were the support behind him.

    He smiled and said, “Yeah.” 

 


	13. Chapter 13

    Now that he was out as a fag, a cocksucker, a pansy and any number of other labels he’d gladly raise his middle fingers to, John discovered his desire for summer growing more and more rapidly than it had in past years.    
  
    It was no doubt for the best that John had managed to give up fighting because of Sherlock, or he would’ve been murdered in the middle of the courtyard the Monday back after prom.  Andrew was eyeing him, and John didn’t think it was because he thought he was cute.  John was missing his usual entourage, something Andrew chose to point out just then.  John ignored him, closing his eyes and resting his head against the brick.    
  
    “Bet I wouldn’t even have to pay him to suck my dick.”  The words were followed by fits of laughter.  John let out an annoyed sigh, but kept his eyes resignedly closed.  Anger had been coursing through him all day and this certainly wasn’t helping with the levels of it.    
  
    “Can’t believe I actually fought that guy, it probably turned him on.”  
  
    “Aw, gross!”  
  
    More laughter.    
  
    He had tried to prepare himself as best as he could, but he was starting to believe that wasn’t enough, when he heard a voice beside him say, “Oh please, John’s only turned on by guys who win fights.”  
  
    John was already smiling by the time he opened his eyes and saw Mike beside him, his stance defiantly protective.  Andrew and his friends looked horrified.  
  
    “Thanks,” John muttered, “I think.”  They both laughed, and his anger began to sink away.            
  
    It wasn’t all bad, he had to admit.  Some things had certainly gotten worse: a considerable number of the guys in his classes who’d been his friendly acquaintances ceased speaking to him.  They weren’t right out rude, but he could feel their discomfort whenever he sat beside them.  But he only heard mostly muttered whispering which he decided he could deal with.  A number of girls had also taken more of an interest in him and Sherlock (who promptly told them to 'fuck off').  Girls he'd never so much as spoken to stared in the halls, said 'hi' to him at lunch.  He didn't understand it, only that, according to Harry they, "just want a gay best friend."

    "But I'm not gay," he'd argued, huffily when he'd expressed his concerns to her.

    "To the school you are," she'd said, sighing.

    Mary, who he hadn't spoken to since November, had approached him the week after prom and told him how proud of him she was for coming out.  He'd awkwardly thanked her and quickly moved away, keen to avoid that conversation with her of all people.  She was currently dating David Hartman, and if she hadn't been, he suspected she wouldn't have been so kind to John, the person who had lead her on, kissed her, then gone on to completely ditch her for his best friend.  But he wasn't upset to have avoided what could've been an even  _more_ distressing conversation.    

    Sherlock had met his fair share of unpleasantness as well that, to John, just bounced off of him.  People seemed to feel more open about their gossip about him, someone already talked about for his sharp attitude and disdain for friends and conversation.  But Sherlock had the added protection of John's friends, who'd made it their personal duty to tell off anyone they heard bad-mouthing Sherlock, so he carried on without a bit of care.        
  
    But John had to admit, at least he wasn’t the one spotlit person in the school as he’d feared.  His head wasn’t being shoved into toilets with each passing minute and he didn’t actually fear for his life like he’d dreaded.  He realized that people had their own shit in their own lives.  Probably hundreds of dramatic, interpersonal events had occurred that year and he hadn’t even heard the half of them because he’d been so caught up in his own life events, his own internal struggles.  So while he’d lost a few talking-buddies, gained a few more glances in the halls, and heard slurs thrown in his direction a little more, he’d found himself happier.    
  
    He had his comfort in his cocoon of friends and Sherlock, who blocked the incessant noise from reaching him.          
  
    And he and Sherlock could finally go on a date.    
  
    “A real date,” John said.  Sherlock’s lips pursed.  
  
    “You don’t mean with a candlelit dinner and unbearable sexual tension when we could be out inspecting crime scenes, do you?”  
  
    “I want to be treated right,” John shrugged, a smirk playing at his lips.    
  
    “You’re unbelievable,” Sherlock muttered, but slung an arm around his shoulders.  They sat on the front steps to John’s house, choosing to enjoy the rare, clear, Spring day instead of sticking themselves in John’s room that was boiling because his mom wouldn’t turn on the air conditioning.  
  
    A moment passed in silence.  The drone from school, the talk of summer vacation and applying to universities slowly ebbed from his thoughts.    
  
    “I know you...probably don’t want to talk about this, but...” John paused and looked experimentally over at Sherlock who had become still, “next year, where’re you applying?”  They’d spoken, halfheartedly, before about a future, a rather vague future in which university was in both of their plans.  But a more solid talk had become inevitable with senior year rapidly approaching.  Before, living in the moment had seemed eternally right, which a new struggle seemingly everyday.  Now, the worst of coming out and becoming comfortable with one another and their relationship was behind them.  Perhaps, they could be a normal couple now.  
  
    “I’m applying wherever you’re applying,” Sherlock said simply.  John frowned, staring intently at his profile, which gave away no emotion.  
  
    “You’re not supposed to do that, you know,” he said.  
  
    Sherlock looked startled, and slightly worried at that, “I’m not supposed to do what?”  
  
    John sighed, “They always say not to choose a university just because your friends, or boyfriend,” John looked pointedly his way, “is going there.”  
  
    “Who’re ‘they’?” Sherlock inquired in a challenging tone.  
  
    “Well, uh, like,” John motioned silently with his hands for a moment, “the teachers and school administrators who give you advice for the future, you know, they say you should choose the best school for you.”  
  
    “And the best school for me is wherever you are,” Sherlock responded defiantly.  At that, John’s cheeks went pink, and he looked down at his feet, leaning into Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
    “Going to a new school has never been an enjoyable experience,” he continued, “My parents pulled me out of private school because they were getting so many phone calls from teachers and counselors telling them how many problems I have, and they thought public school would be a bit more lenient.”  He looked sullenly across the street, seemingly at nothing.    
  
    “I came to public school not expecting anything to change,” his eyes shifted toward John, who’d looked up at him, “then I met you, and I’m not giving that up.”    
  
    John’s heart pounded in his chest, overwhelmed by Sherlock’s heavy, and frankly comforting, words.  John placed a hand on Sherlock’s jaw and turned his head so he was facing him.  He had a lot of words in his head.  Every phrase seemed likely to express his thanks, his relief, his uncontrollable ache and emotion, but he just tilted his head, and pushed their lips together instead.  Sherlock gripped his shoulder tighter and pulled him into the kiss, sliding his tongue into John’s mouth.      
  
\-------  
  
    “John!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, opening the door wide, “so good to see you.”  She wrapped him in a tight hug, pulling him over the threshold.  
  
    “Hi, Mrs. Holmes, is Sherlock home?  I’ve been texting him but he wasn’t answering, we had plans...” John said uneasily.    
  
    “He should be upstairs, dear,” she said, closing the front door with a snap.  
  
    “Thanks,” he said.    
  
    All of the upstairs doors were shut, making the hallway dark and a little difficult to maneuver through.  When he reached Sherlock’s door at the end, he knocked and called, “Sherlock?”  
  
    There was no answer.  He tried the doorknob; it was unlocked.  He pushed the door open.   
  
    Sherlock lay sprawled out on his stomach on top of the bed covers.  He wore his usual black jeans and a black T-shirt that John suspected he’d been wearing since the day before.  John crept to the side of the bed and shook Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
    “Hey, we’ve got plans,” John said, watching Sherlock’s eyes open and blink furiously.    
  
    “Hm?” Sherlock said into the pillow, “But I’ve...case.”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “Case,” Sherlock repeated, lifting his head, “Oh, hello John.”  His hand wrapped around the back of John’s head and pulled him down into a warm kiss.    
  
    “Sherlock...” John said, pulling himself back after a moment, “we made these plans a week ago, we were going to see _Rocky Horror_ then have dinner.”  
  
    But Sherlock had shook his head, his messy hair quivering on top, and suddenly rolled over, grabbing for the black-screened laptop next to him on the bed.  He pulled it close, anxiously sliding his finger over the trackpad.  John let out an annoyed sigh.  
  
    “I’ll make you dinner in a bit,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, then muttered to himself, “Yes...that’s right,” his eyes skimming across the screen.  He turned, a grin lighting his face.  
      
    “I’ve got a case where this man’s internal organs were all replaced with fruits and vegetables, but he doesn’t appear to have any incision marks, it’s so interesting.”  Sherlock’s eyes were wide and wild, excitement blazing in them.  John’s heart sank because he knew he’d be unwilling to take that excitement away.  
  
    He figured he might as well play along.  
  
    “What can you deduce about it, then?”  
  
    But Sherlock was already on his feet and rummaging through his closet.    
  
    John gave him a dubious look that Sherlock didn’t notice when he pulled his leather jacket off a hanger and put it on.  
  
    “Sherlock, it’s 75 degrees out.”  
  
    Sherlock ignored his comment and said quickly, “Come on.”  He grabbed John by the arm and pulled him out the door.    
  
      
    They’d been walking for nearly twenty minutes and John was becoming more annoyed with each step.  
  
    “Sherlock,” he repeated, “where the hell are we going?”  
  
    “Come on,” Sherlock just said again.  John huffed.  The apartment buildings on either sides of the roads began to press in, the streets shrinking, and the bricks becoming more graffiti-ridden, with more and more empty buildings were popping up as they walked.    
  
    Sherlock pulled his hand out of his pocket and brushed it against John’s.  John was still feeling annoyed, but he melted a little at the warmth of Sherlock’s skin.  He gave in, entwining their fingers.  
  
    The sun was setting quickly behind the buildings, reflecting an orange glare against the asphalt through the alleyways.  Several young men sat on one of the stoops that they were approaching, laughing loudly into the street.    
  
    “The crime scene’s somewhere around here,” Sherlock muttered, scanning the numbers on the apartments.  
  
    “Is that what we’re doing?”  But John realized he should’ve known already, and that if Sherlock was going to take him on a date, it would be somewhere where blood had been spilled.  He smiled, despite himself.  
  
    They neared the men on the stoop and Sherlock took his hand back, sticking it in his jacket pocket.  But the men had already spotted them.    
  
    “Sherlock?  Sherlock Holmes?  Is that you?” one shouted.  John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him.  One of the young men, a tall guy with slicked back blonde hair and a wide, white smile jumped down the steps to block their way.  
  
    “Mycroft Holmes’ brother, right?”  
  
    John glanced uneasily at Sherlock who had his chin in the air and a look of annoyance on his face.  
  
    “Sebastian,” he said through nearly clenched teeth.  The other young men had joined them on the sidewalk.  One was stocky and dark with short, curled black hair and looked about John and Sherlock’s age while the other was lanky and blonde like this Sebastian.    
  
    “So you do remember me, how’s ol’ Mycroft doing?” Sebastian asked, but he didn’t seem all that interested in getting an answer.  He was eyeing Sherlock, and flicking his eyes between him and John.  His stance suggested that of a troll unwilling to allow someone to pass over his bridge.    
  
    “He’s doing fine, although I believe lonely, doesn’t have someone quite like you to make a fool of at university.”  
  
    Sebastian’s smile instantly dropped off.  His friends exchanged uneasy looks.    
  
    “Is that what he told you?  That _he_ made a fool of _me_?” a sneer was replaced on Sebastian’s face.  
  
    Sherlock, still with that calm voice answered, “Considering Mycroft was first in his class, I’d say ‘yes,‘ but really this conversation is boring, do you need something?”      
  
    “Just wondering what a Holmes is doing around here,” he lifted a hand and motioned at the surrounding buildings, “with his, ah,” Sebastian laughed, encouraging his friends to follow, “boyfriend?”  
  
    Sherlock didn’t seem fazed by their sneers, “Is that supposed to offend me?”  
  
     “Sherlock,” John muttered softly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s jacket sleeve.    
  
    Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as Sebastian and his friend guffawed, “You were always stupid, Sebastian.”    
  
    Everything ceased.  The laughter died out. 

    And Sebastian’s fist collided with Sherlock’s jaw.    
  
    Sherlock reeled backwards, but his feet were planted to keep from falling, as if he’d been expecting it.    
  
    John hadn’t even thought.  As soon as he saw Sebastian’s fist, he was moving.  John tackled him to the ground, hitting hard on the cement.  Sebastian wriggled under him, trying to push him off, but although John hadn’t done this in months, he could never forget how to do it.    
  
    One, two, three hits to the face.  Sebastian’s friends grabbed at his arms, tried to kick him in the ribs.  John lashed out, hitting one in the stomach as he pushed himself to his feet over Sebastian, who lay groaning on the pavement.    
  
    “John!” he heard Sherlock shout and felt him grab his arms and pull him away, dragging him on his heels.    
  
    “Leave it!” Sherlock roared, anger filling his words as Sebastian’s friends started for them again.    
  
    “Run,” he felt Sherlock’s breath on his ear.  He obeyed.     
           
        
    “Who the hell even was that?” John panted, once they’d put enough distance between them.  They slipped into an alley to rest just as the streetlights flickered on.      
  
    “Someone Mycroft went to school with, well, I guess we both went to school with him, but he felt like he was Mycroft’s competition for top of the class, but it was a joke really, Mycroft’s brilliant,” Sherlock admitted, “then his parents went bankrupt and he had to transfer, no idea why he’s held his grudge for this long.”  
  
    John snorted, leaning against the bricks, “Never thought I’d hear you compliment Mycroft.”    
  
    Sherlock scowled, “Never thought I would,” he considered for a moment, “I think I’ll let him know about this, perhaps he’ll have someone pay Sebastian a visit.”  
  
    John just shook his head.            
          
    “Thanks for that, I think it’s the second time you’ve fought for me,” Sherlock said, stepping close.    
  
    “You’re not mad at me for fighting?” John chuckled, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s lapel.  A grin crossed Sherlock’s face.  
  
    “I’ll allow it, considering it was necessary.”         
  
    “Sorry we didn’t get to your crime scene,” John said, sympathetically.  
  
    “It’s fine, I’ll try again tomorrow” he sighed, “I owe you about a hundred dates now anyway,” Sherlock said rather sheepishly.  He leaned his head down, pressing their foreheads together      
  
    “You’ve already given me a nice one, I mean,” John smirked, “no candles, but there’s plenty of sexual tension.”     
  
    Sherlock’s face broken into another toothy grin, “So I’ll solve crimes, you’ll save my ass, how’s that?”  
  
    “Perfect.”  
  
    “Although I didn’t solve the crime this time.”  
  
    “Next time,” John comforted, pressing a kiss to his lips.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW sorry this took so long. Jet-lag is pretty much my arch enemy. Like, it's 5:00pm right now and I feel like I just woke up? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next chapter is the epilogue so yay!


	14. Epilogue

    Summer, which meant freedom, had finally arrived and John thought he’d never leave Tom’s pool.  Shaded by leafy trees and barely frequented by spiders, he and his friends had made it their summer spot, at least for the time being.  The only time he was away was when he and Sherlock were out searching for poorly secured crime scenes or else visiting the police, trying to get them to listen to Sherlock’s ideas.     
  
    “This is our last summer before university orientations and all that bullshit,” Tom announced, leaning his head back in the blow-up chair he floated in.    
  
    “No need to remind us,” John said, prodding the chair with his toe so it started off in the opposite direction.  He turned over onto his stomach, holding onto the wall to keep himself still.  Sherlock sat in front of him, his legs hanging into the water.  
  
    “Sherlock, do you think you can predict which schools I’ll get into so the wait doesn’t kill me?” Tom called to him.  
   
    “Doubt it, mate, but I’ll do what I can,” Sherlock snorted, leaning back on his hands.  Tom grumbled something, eyes closed.  Greg sat on the steps at the opposite end, lazily kicking to make waves.    
  
    “I’m just gonna keep telling myself that I deserve all this downtime,” Greg said, “I just can’t believe James got a job, I feel so lazy.”    
  
    “It’s only three weeks into summer, we’ve been doing stuff for a good ten months, I think we all deserve some downtime,” John reminded him, laying his head on one of Sherlock’s thighs.  
  
    “Hey, while you’re down there...” Sherlock murmured, smirking.  John stuck his tongue out at him.    
  
    “You guys being gross again?”  
  
    A shadow appeared next to Sherlock, and John looked up, grinning, into Mike’s face.     
  
    But then his face fell.  
  
    “What’s up, Mike?” John asked quickly, for Mike’s face was grim, almost broken looking.      
  
    “Well,” he began, slapping his feet into the water, “Haley and I broke up last night.”  
  
    “Oh shit, man,” Tom breathed, looking over.    
  
    “What happened?” John asked quickly.  Tom began paddling back to the edge and Greg stood up.    
  
    “To be honest,” he sighed, “I told her I loved her and she said she didn’t feel the same way.”  
  
    Tom and Greg let in sharp inhales of breath.    
  
    John glanced at Sherlock who was pointedly avoiding his gaze and had his eyes fixed on Mike.  
  
    “Maybe she just needs time,” John suggested hopefully.  
  
    “Maybe,” Mike shrugged, not sounding very convinced.

\-------  
      
    Over the next five years, John and Sherlock watched relationships come and go for their friends.  But one constant in their group, was them.  John knew how in sync they were, even their fights and their make-ups followed along a set path, a proper rhythm.    
  
    It was the week before their last semester in university.  At half past 6:00pm, John took Sherlock’s hand and they left their flat on Baker Street, heading toward the pub down the block.    
    They’d moved in together their second year at university when John decided he no longer wanted to live at home when his mom had ended up in a rehab program.  They saw each other occasionally, though, about as much as John saw his dad as well.  Harry was at a university across the country for writing, but they e-mailed each other every week.     
  
    There was a roaring shout as John and Sherlock pushed the pub door open and were hit with a wall of smoke.    
  
    “John!  Sherlock!”    
  
    John let out a cry of joy and rushed to embrace Mike, James, Tom, and Greg who were all standing at the bar, grinning wildly at the sight of them.  Mike was looking as cheered as ever, James wore his newly pressed Army uniform, Tom looked as if he’d grown about another foot since they’d last seen each other, and Greg’s shiny police badge glinted brilliantly in the hanging bar lights.  Sherlock followed closely behind John, greeting their cheers with sincere smiles and nods, and he even let Greg give him a huge hug.    
  
    A college girl with long, straight black hair that reached the bottom of her red sweatshirt and had a kind looking, heart-shaped face stood beside the group, waiting eagerly to be introduced.  
  
    “Guys, this is Laura,” Greg announced, putting an arm around her waist.  
  
    “Hi,” she said, a little nervously.  
  
    “And I think I’ll announce now,” he glanced her way and she gave him a small nod, “that you are all the first to know that,” he waited for a dramatic pause, “we’re getting married!”    
  
    The roar of excited congratulations was nearly deafening in the already loud bar.  
   
    “My god!” John exclaimed, clapping Greg on the shoulder, “Congrats, man.”  
  
    “Didn’t think you had it in you,” James joked, patting his back.  
  
    “Yeah we thought John and Sherlock would be the first,” Mike said, nudging Sherlock in the side.  Sherlock smiled.      
  
    “Drinks all around!” Tom cried, and there was a ruckus once again.  
  
    “Hey, John,” Mike got his attention, “you know who your sister’s dating?”  
  
    “Of course,” John laughed.  
  
    “Clara!” Mike exclaimed, incredulously, “My old Clara.”  
  
    “More like your one-month Clara,” John snorted.  
  
    “Well no wonder they didn’t last long,” Greg added in.  
  
    The night settled into comfortable chatter, punctuated by uproarious laughter, the kind John didn’t think he could ever get tired of with this lot.  Although their separate lives would pull them in different directions, picking up where they left off would never be an issue.  
  
    “Sherlock, there’s this case, it’s kinda crazy,” Greg began, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “if I could convince the guys at work...”  
  
    “I’d love to take a look at it,” Sherlock answered, an excited glint in his eye that John couldn’t miss.  Their escapades into the area of criminal law had naturally kept up with them.  
  
    “What are you two majoring in?” Laura asked, looking between John and Sherlock.  
  
    “Pre-med,” John answered.  
  
    “And Chemistry,” Sherlock said, tipping his glass toward his lips.  
  
    “What are you majoring in?” John asked politely.  
  
    “She’s obviously an art major, painting, am I right?” Sherlock asked.  
  
    “Yeah, how’d you know?”  
  
    “Fingernails, hair, eyebrows,” he said dismissively.  
  
    “Eyebrows?” she frowned.  
  
    “Oh good, you’ve got someone else to go on about,” John said, smirking, “Not been happy since the guys told you to shut it last time we got together when you couldn’t stop going on about their shenanigans?”  
  
    Sherlock gave him a dubious look.  
          
    “And you two are...together, right?” she asked tentatively, eyes shifting back and forth.  
  
    “Obviously,” Sherlock replied.  John nudged him in the ribs at the look of embarrassment on Laura’s face.    
  
    The conversation turned quiet after awhile, but the stories, reminiscing, and hopes for the future continued to be told until they were all too tired to speak.    
  
    They finally said their goodbyes around midnight, and John and Sherlock pulled away from the group, starting their walk back home.                    
              
    “Greg getting married, can you believe that?” John said, smiling and shaking his head.    
  
    “It really is unexpected,” Sherlock answered.  John eyed him closely.  
  
    “You totally knew.”  
  
    “Did not,” but John’s perceptions of Sherlock could match Sherlock’s deductions of everyone else.  
  
    “Alright, I knew,” Sherlock finally admitted, “but I wanted it to be a surprise for you, I know you like that kind of stuff.”  
  
    “You’re not bad at keeping secrets.”  
  
    “Well I have to practice.”  
  
    “For what?”  
  
    “For when I propose to you.”  
  
    “Really?  When’s that going to be?” John's heart suddenly felt full to bursting point.  
  
    “Were you listening?  I’m keeping it a secret.”  
  
    Sherlock took John’s hand, fitting them together in that familiar, comfortable position.          
  
    Finally, those things John had been flitting after for so long had come together.  The ever-wandering happiness.  That stability.  And of course, the comfort of home he’d made with Sherlock Holmes.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me and reading to the end, you don't know how much it means to me to be able to share this story that I've been working on for so long and actually have people ENJOY it. I'm currently writing a new johnlock story as well so, if you're interested, keep an eye out for it. It won't be teen!lock, but instead an AU that's a mixture of militaristic, surrealist, and fantasy-like elements (I promise, it makes sense in context). 
> 
> Also, again, if anyone has a Tumblr my url is: justliketheywereflies.tumblr.com
> 
> I love my Tumblr friends.
> 
> Thank you, again <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, thank you so much for reading! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I'm just getting a hang of things. There will be 13 chapters plus an epilogue, all of which are currently written and just need to be posted. Comments are cherished and absolutely appreciated! Also, if you'd like to be buddies on Tumblr, my url is: justliketheywereflies.tumblr.com


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